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TYPICAL 
NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


SELECTED  AND  EDITED 
vBY 


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HfFriiARRINGTON 

joint  author  with  t.  t.  frankenberg  of 
"essentials  in  journalism" 


FOREWORD  BY 

MERLE  THORPE 

PROFESSOR  OF  JOURNALISM,  UNIVERSITY  OF  KANSAS 


GINN  AND  COMPANY 

BOSTON     •    NEW  YORK     •    CHICAGO     •    LONDON 
ATLANTA     •    DALLAS     •    COLUMBUS    •    SAN   FRANCISCO 


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ALL   RUIHTS   KF.SBRVEU 
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OINN  ANU  CUMHANY  •  PKO- 
PRIETORS  •  BOSTON  •  U.S.A. 


THE  REPORTER 

Tugged  by  some  centripetal  force  to  wherever  there  is  a  clash  of  human 
passions,  he  is  always  "  on  the  spot."  Unlike  his  brother,  the  novelist,  who 
fashions  out  of  the  furnace  of  his  mind  at  painstaking  intervals  some  finely 
modeled  bit  of  porcelain,  the  furnace  of  this  man's  soul  is  always  at  full  draft. 
Into  it  is  flung  day  by  day  all  the  inflammable  stuff  of  life  —  the  mixed  ingredi- 
ents of  heroism,  murder,  revolution,  passionate  love.  And  steadily,  inexorably, 
it  is  poured  out  again,  uncritical  of  itself,  slag  and  ore,  half  drivel  and  half  liter- 
ature. The  recompense  he  works  for  is  to  have  his  fellow  workers  say  "  Good 
story."  His  only  critic  is  "  the  desk."  To-day,  yesterday's  "good  story  "  is  light- 
ing the  morning  fire  in  a  thousand  tenements.  Anonymity,  which  guards  him 
from  self-consciousness,  stands  also  mockingly  between  him  and  fame.  He 
snatches  his  friendships  like  his  meals,  as  stokers  must  strike  up  their  friend- 
ships between  shifts  when  the  Matiretania  is  "  out  for  a  record."  Yet  there  is 
no  freemasonry  like  this.  From  behind  the  scenes  he  makes  the  puppets  of 
the  world's  stage  dance  for  us.  But  we  can  suspect  his  smile,  as  he  surveys 
our  antics,  to  be  something  between  pity  and  contempt. — Will  Irwin,  in 
Collier's  Weekly 


PREFACE 

This  is  a  compilation  of  representative  stories  clipped  from 
newspapers  from  day  to  day  or  rescued  from  office  files  where 
they  have  long  been  buried.  In  some  instances  these  stories  are 
known  as  "great  yarns"  that  have  become  office  traditions.  Recol- 
lection of  the  man  who  fashioned  them,  in  the  roar  and  hurry 
of  a  newspaper  office,  still  lingers  in  the  local  room  and  along 
Newspaper  Row. 

The  compiler  believes  that  many  of  these  stories  reach  the 
stature  of  real  literature.  He  does  not  offer  all  of  them,  however, 
as  perfect  specimens  of  newspaper  writing ;  but  it  is  believed  that 
their  merits  considerably  outweigh  obvious  faults.  Unfortunately, 
some  of  the  tales  gathered  here  belong  to  "  fame's  little  day." 
They  are  all  but  forgotten,  along  with  the  names  of  the  reporters 
who  wrote  them.  The  editor  has  succeeded,  however,  in  attaching 
a  line  of  author's  credit  to  all  but  a  few  of  the  excerpts  printed. 

The  purpose  of  the  book  is  to  present  typical  newspaper  stories 
that  may  serve  as  instructive  guides  to  students  of  journalism.  It 
offers  in  permanent  form  illustrative  material  found  only  at  the 
expense  of  much  time  and  labor.  The  compilation  is  designed  to 
take  the  place  of  scrapbooks  and  unwieldy  cardboards  used  for  the 
preservation  of  clippings  assigned  by  teachers  for  collateral  read- 
ing. In  the  present  form  a  greater  number  of  students  may  avail 
themselves  of  carefully  chosen  newspaper  stories  of  continuing 
worth.  It  is  thought,  moreover,  that  this  volume  of  stories  will 
make  interesting  reading  for  newspaper  men  in  the  "game" 
and  prove  stimulating  to  ambitious  young  people  eager  to  write 
for  publication. 

These  excerpts  are  arranged  to  show  the  evolution  of  the  news 
story  from  the  two-and-three-sentence  item,  concerned  with  one 
person  and  one  episode,  up  through  the  delineation  of  massed 
humanity  set  on  a  larger  stage  of  action.    The  concluding  sections 


VI  TVl'lCAl,   NKWSl'Al'KR   SI'ORIKS 

of  the  book,  therefore,  diseuss  the  handhng  of  crowds  and  war, 
the  most  difficult  of  all  news  writing.  If  a  reporter  knows  how  to 
paint  a  miniature  faithfully  and  with  a  firm,  sure  touch,  he  may  be 
trusted  when  he  tries  his  hand  on  a  larger  canvas.  Both  tasks 
require  skill,  an  appreciation  of  news  values,  and  the  art  of  writing 
accurately  and  clearly. 

General  introductions,  and  brief  comments  at  the  close  of  stories 
cited,  have  been  supplied  by  the  editor.  For  an  extended  considera- 
tion of  the  technique  of  news  writing,  the  reader  is  referred  to  a 
companion  volume,  "'  Essentials  in  Journalism  "  (Harrington  and 
Frankenbcrg).  The  present  book  offer?  supplementary  examples 
of  the  various  types  of  stories  published  in  newspapers.  It  is 
hoped  that  this  convenient  collection  of  specimens  may  serve  to 
quicken  the  writing  instinct  and  to  show  how  other  men  have  set 
down  the  facts  of  their  experience  and  observation. 

The  compiler  is  indebted  to  Merle  Thorpe  and  Leon  N.  Flint 
of  the  Department  of  Journalism,  University  of  Kansas,  to  Mel- 
ville E.  Stone,  general  manager  of  the  Associated  Press,  to  Roy 
VV.  Howard,  general  manager  of  the  United  Press  Association, 
and  to  a  score  of  other  newspaper  men  who  have  assisted  him  in 
the  gathering  of  the  materials  that  make  up  this  volume.  Appre- 
ciation for  helpful  suggestions  is  extended  to  Evaline  Harrington 
and  to  Frieda  Poston  Harrington. 


H.  F.  HARRINGTON 


Department  of  Journalism 
University  of  Kansas 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  Personal  and  Local  Items i 

II.  Little  Stories  Well  Told 9 

How  a  Boy  Raised  Corn OJiio  State  Jotirnal  10 

Prison  Guards  Chase  Convicts Associated  Press  10 

Moral  —  Don't  Chase  a  Calf     ....      St.  Lotiis  Post-Dispatch  10 

A  New  Way  of  Cracking  a  Safe Associated  Press  1 1 

Slain  by  Angry  Husband Kansas  City  Star  1 1 

When  Thieves  Break  Through  and  —  Cook     .     .   Chicago  Tribune  1 1 

English  of  Students  Faulty Associated  Press  1 2 

Wooed  Death  in  a  Cell Kansas  City  Star  1 2 

Hotel  Men  Tired  of  Dancing  Craze  ....    N'ew  York  Tribwte  13 

Kitten  Hunt  May  Cost  Life New  York  Sun  13 

A  Machine  Digs  Potatoes Chicago  Tribune  14 

To  Mark  Nation's  Birthplace    .     .      Philadelphia  Evening  Ledger  14 

Takes  Fire  in  His  Sleep N'ew  Yo7-k  Stin  14 

Lads  a  Pastor's  Aids Kansas  City  Star  15 

Zoo  Gets  Specimens  from  Penn  Expedition 

Philadelphia  N^orth  American  i  5 

His  Load  of  Hay  Caught  Fire Kansas  City  Star  16 

Your  Natal  Day,  Does  it  Slip  Away  ?      .     .     .    New  York  Tribime  1 6 

Cost  $33  to  be  a  Hero New  York  Sun  16 

A  Machine  Makes  Sandwiches New  York  Herald  ij 

III.  Four  News  Stories 18 

Boys  Drown  Coasting  on  Gift  Sleds Chicago  Hei'ald  21 

Fought  an  Armed  Thief Kansas  City  Star  24 

Richard  Canfield,  Former  Gambler,  is  Dead     .     .     N^ew  York  Sun  26 
41  Perish,  99  Live,  as  Liner  Monroe^  Rammed  by  the  Nantucket^ 

Sinks New  York  World  32 

IV.  Stories  by  Wire 39 

Leaves  Faculty  to  Win  a  Bride Chicago  Herald  41 

Ice  Bridge  Disaster  at  the  Falls Buffalo  Express  47 

vii 


viii  IVl'irAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

PAGE 

Sulzer,  Deposed  Governor,  (^uits  Albany  in  Silence 

Associated  Press  53 

Inauguration  of  the  President  of  Cuba  .     .     .     .    Associated  Press  57 

The  Mcssina-Calabria  Disaster Associated  Press  65 

\.  Human-Interest  Stories 72 

The  Wolf  Lifts  a  Latch Kansas  City  Star  74 

Rained  Gifts  in  Sandtown Kansas  City  Star  77 

Plan  a  Christmas  Wolf  Drive Kansas  City  Star  80 

Aid  for  Entombed  Man New  York  Times  81 

Entombed  Miner  Frantic New  York  Times  82 

Hard  Rock  Delays  Rescue New  York  Titnes  83 

Buried  Miner  Out  To-day  ...          ...       New  York  Ti?nes  84 

Mine  Captive  Free  —  Says  He  Is  "  Bully  "  .  JVew  York  Times  85 
Girl  Leaps  with  Rodman  Law  off  the  Williamsburg  Bridge 

iXew  York  World  87 

Triplets,  All  Three  Girls Kansas  City  Star  91 

Triplets  Gain  a  Pound Kansas  City  Star  93 

Two  Runaway  Maids  Are  Home      ....       Kansas  City  Star  94 

A  Little  Girl  Went  Exploring N'ew  York  Sun  95 

Willie  Tries  a  High  Dive Ohio  State  Jojtrtial  95 

Sleeps  in  a  Cell ;  Violin  in  His  Arms   .     .     .    Ohio  State  Journal  97 

Relic  of  a  Medieval  Feud  Still  in  Showcase    .    Ohio  State  Journal  98 

Inspiration  in  a  Sandwich Kansas  City  Star  99 

Tired  of  Big  City  Life,  She  's  Going  Back  Home  .     Cleveland  Press  100 

Waits  to  Kiss  the  Bride;  Sliot  for  a  Burglar  .     .    Chicago  Tribune  loi 

Throbs  of  a  Misspent  Life N'ew  York  World  102 

Shadows  of  the  Circus Anonyinous  103 

Italian  in  a  Love  Tangle Kansas  City  Star  104 

And  the  Door  was  Shut! Ohio  State  Journal  105 

A  Pied  Piper  Falls  Down Kansas  City  Star  107 

She  Serves  Coal  and  Cures  Hubby  .     .     .     .    Ohio  State  Journal  107 

Joseph  Speed  Was  Too  Slow      .      Philadelphia  Eiiening  Ledger  108 

Hungry  Joe  Spoiled  a  Feast Kansas  City  Star  109 

A  Theft  with  Local  Color Kansas  City  Star  109 

They  Found  the  Bluebird  of  Happiness     .     .       Kansas  City  Star  1 10 

Bird  to  Lie  in  Woman's  Grave Chicago  Tribune  112 

Salamander  Parrot  Tells  of  Two-Day  Stay  in  Fire 

New  York  World  1 1 3 

Buddy,  the  Butterfly,  Winters  in  St.  Paul       .      New  York  World  114 

A  Dog  Mind  Reader Detroit  Tribune  1 1 5 

Good  Dog  Fight  Stops  Picture  Show  .    University  Daily  Katisan  1 1 7 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

Wrestler  Tosses  Stage  Bear Seattle  Sun 

Sukey  Could  n't  Chew  Her  Cud  .     .  Springfield  {Mo.)  Republican 

Hattie  Has  Her  Nails  Trimmed New  York  Press 

Mrs.  Goose  Dined  on  Christmas  Goldfish       .      New  York  World 
Slippery,  Sloppy,  Sleety  Streets,  Sliding,  Gliding,  Falling  Feets 

Ohio  State  Journal 
Robin  Proffers  Proof  of  Spring Ohio  State  Journal 

VI.  In  the  Wake  of  the  News  .  

Here  's  Goodby  to  an  Old,  Old  Friend  .     .     .       Kansas  City  Star 
In  the  Land  of  the  American  Head-Huntcrs 

St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch 
Pope's  Villa  at  Twickenham  for  Sale  .  .  .  A^ew  York  Herald 
Ancient  Mound  Yields  Rich  Treasure  .     .     .     Ohio  State  Journal 

Here 's  the  Origin  of  Bourbon Detroit  Tribune 

Uncle  Sam  Now  Instructor  in  Science  of  Raising  Children 

N'ew  York  Sun 
Rare  and  Valuable  Bibles  in  Bishop  Quayle's  Library 

St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press 
The  Cossacks  are  the  Cowboys  of  Russia  .  .  A'ew  York  Herald 
Founder  of  Astor  Fortune  Twice  Escaped  Shipwreck 

N^e'w  York  Times 

Pavlowa  is  Satin  and  Wire Detroit  News 

John  Muir,  the  Hermit  of  the  Yosemite     .         Kansas  City  Times 
The  Sensational  Ante-Mortem  Statement  of  A.  T.  Gobbler,  Esq. 

Pittsburgh  Press 

Day  of  Thanks,  Old  Style N'ew  York  Evetiing  Post 

Riis  and  His  Carols  Are  Not  Forgotten    N'ew  York  Evening  Post 
Vashon  Island  Preparing  for  Strawberry  Harvest    .     .  Seattle  Sun 

VII.  Interviews 

Frederick  William  at  Front  Explains  His  Views  on  Great  World 

Conflict United  Press 

Funston  Longs  for  the  Farm  ....  St.  Louis  Globe-Democrat 

Physician  Would  Free  Home  Slaves Boston  Post 

An  Eager  Face,  Sightless  Eyes,  A  Heroic  Voice  and  a  Smile  — 

That 's  Miss  Keller Seattle  Su?i 

VIII.  Police  Stories 

Insane  Father  Murders  Children  and  Kills  Himself 

Associated  Press 
Father  Would  Give  a  Fortune  for  Son's  Release    Ohio  State  Journal 


X  IVriCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

PAGE 

Kansas  University  Freshman  to  Prison      .     .       Kansas  City  Star  201 

Plead  for  Kansas  University  Forger      .     .     .    Kansas  City  Times  202 

Scores  Plead  for  Boy  Forger Kansas  City  Star  203 

Crime  Wave  Due  to  Poor  Training  of  Hoys  in  the  Homes 

Cle7'ela)id  Plain  Dealer  204 

Quack  Doctor  Blamed  for  Double  Death  .  .    Chicago  Tributie  207 

Woman's  Picture  Holds  Suicide's  Dying  Gaze    .     Chicago  Herald  208 

Falls  on  Walks  Hurt  Four  More  Policemen  .     .     Chicago  Herald  209 

IX.  Gridiron,  Diamond,  and  Links 211 

Brickley's  Kicks  Win  for  Harvard New  York  Times  212 

Bulldog  against  the  Tiger A'ciu  York  Ei'ening  Post  219 

Mathewson  Humbled,  but  "  Old  Master,"  Still 

Neiv  York  Ei'ejiing  Mail  222 

Ouimet  World's  Golf  Champion A'eiv  York  Times  226 

X.  Crowds 232 

Mayor  Gaynor's  Body  at  Rest  in  Greenwood      N'ew  York  Herald  232 
Thousands  Pay  Cash  for  Glimpse  of  Socialist  Congressman 

A'cw  York  Sun  240 

Panic  Sweeps  City  When  Dam  is  Reported  Out    OJiio  State  Journal  246 

Sunday  Flays  Old  King  Booze Ohio  State  Journal  250 

Geraldine  Farrar  a  Fairy  Charmer Seattle  Sun  255 

XI.  War 258 

An  Eyewitness's  Story  of  the  Battle  of  Wirballen   .     United  Press  260 

The  Fall  of  Antwerp Collier's  Weekly  267 

Paris  Under  the  Shadow  of  War Associated  Press  284 

German  Army  Cooks  Wear  tlic  Iron  Cross    .  Chicago  Daily  News  287 

Vienna,  a  City  of  Misery United  Press  290 

On  the  Paths  of  Glory Philadelphia  Public  Ledger  293 


FOREWORD 

Throughout  all  newspaper  writing,  handling  many  matters  and 
employing  many  forms,  there  is  one  principle  that  is  fundamental. 
The  beginner  should  keep  it  ever  before  him,  for  it  is  the  head 
and  front  of  success  in  journalism.  It  is  this  :  See  clearly  ;  repro- 
duce truthfully.  Though  all  forms  and  types  of  newspaper  con- 
struction and  material  are  mastered,  if  the  vision  is  blurred  or  the 
expression  faulty,  failure  is  inevitable.  Whatever  may  be  said  of 
the  Press,  its  ideal  is  the  truthful  presentation  of  current  events. 
And  it  has  no  charity  for  careless  observation  or  inability  to  render 
a  truthful  impression  by  means  of  words. 

The  simple  reporting  of  news  has  an  ethical  value.  Gathering 
and  writing  news  carries  with  it  a  grave  responsibility.  The  hum- 
blest citizen,  going  about  his  daily  work,  reporting  by  word  of 
mouth,  owes  it  to  himself  and  society  to  be  careful  and  accurate ; 
but  the  obligation  is  increased  a  thousandfold  when  he,  as  a  re- 
porter, converses  with  the  thousands.  The  Truth  shall  make  us 
free ;  but  to  get  the  Truth  and  write  the  Truth  is  well-nigh  im- 
possible. Even  if  the  reporter  obtained  the  Truth,  "it  is  a  long 
way,"  someone  has  remarked,  "from  the  eye  and  ear  down  through 
the  arm,  and  fingers,  and  pen,  to  the  written  word."  And  it  is 
as  far  again  from  the  written  word  to  the  eye  of  the  reader. 

The  Johnny-on-the-spot  reporter  is  found  only  on  the  stage  and 
in  pleasant  fiction.  In  real  life  he  must  get  his  information  from 
bystanders,  at  second  and  even  third  and  fourth  hand.  Honest 
bystanders  have  a  way  of  seeing  things  from  an  individual  point 
of  view,  and  glare  at  each  other  and  deny  and  retract  when  under 
oath  on  the  witness  stand.  And  did  you  ever  feel  impelled  to 
throw  a  pop-bottle  at  the  umpire  t  Not  only  bystanders  but 
reporters  have  their  visual  and  auditory  impressions  warped  by 
heredity,  early  associations,  religious  training,  and  political  bias. 
A  St.  Louis  copyreader  was  never  allowed  to  write  a  head  on  a 


xii  TYPICAL  NEWSl'Al'KR  S'lORIKS 

live-stock  stor)'.  Especially  did  he  hate  a  cow.  He  explained  his 
aberration  by  saying  that  his  grandmother  was  once  chased  by 
a  bull. 

It  is  not  possible  to  get  the  truth,  and  if  the  impossible  were 
attained  there  is  still  the  bigger  problem  of  setting  forth  a  truth- 
ful picture  by  means  of  words. 

The  honest  reporter,  who  respects  himself  and  his  calling,  will 
strive  to  convey  to  his  readers  a  faithful  impression  of  the  news. 
To  gain  this  desired  end  he  must  have  not  only  a  trained  eye  and 
ear  but  a  working  knowledge  of  the  essential  and  special  proper- 
ties of  style,  as  well  as  a  wide  versatility  as  to  forms  and  methods. 
For  is  it  not  true  that  all  depends  on  how  the  thing  is  said  }  To 
make  the  Truth  lie  is  so  easy.  An  inverted-sentence  structure, 
a  careless  word,  will  turn  the  trick.  Slavish  accuracy  sometimes 
assists  Error  more  than  slovenly  inaccuracy.  And  often  it  will 
be  the  manner,  the  dress,  the  architecture,  that  will  accomplish 
a  satisfying  verisimilitude  and  make  the  reporter  more  nearly 
lOO  per  cent  efficient. 

The  tools  of  the  rhetorician  are  not  to  be  despised,  for  it  is 
only  by  the  use  of  them  that  faithful  presentation  is  possible. 
There  are  newspaper  men  of  the  highest  integrity  in  subordinate 
positions  to-day,  classed  as  unreliable  by  their  papers  simply 
because  they  either  do  not  grasp  the  significance  of  events  or,  if 
the  impression  they  gain  of  them  is  truthful,  they  are  unable  to 
transmit  it  to  their  readers.  Rhetoric  —  the  principles  of  compo- 
sition —  offers  correctives  for  defective  expression.  An  intensive 
study  of  rhetorical  processes  —  right  words,  sentence  structure, 
the  essential  and  special  properties  of  style  —  should  equip  the 
student  with  tools,  and  with  clear  vision  he  should  be  able  to 
render  good  account  of  himself  as  a  reporter. 

The  examples  in  this  book  ought  to  be  of  value  to  the  ambi- 
tious newspaper  man  or  woman  who  wishes  to  add  to  his  working 
equipment. 

MERLE  THORPE 
Department  of  Journalism 
University  of  Kansas 


TYPICAL 
NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


I 


PERSONAL  AND  LOCAL  ITEMS 


Of  all  the  things  in  the  world,  people  are  most  interested  in 
themselves  and  in  their  concerns,  next  in  their  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances. Indeed,  one  may  go  a  step  further  and  assert  that 
the  personal,  the  familiar,  the  everyday  intimacies  of  street  and 
town,  furnish  by  far  the  largest  bulk  of  a  day's  conversation.  Go 
where  you  will,  people  are  talking  about  other  people,  their  experi- 
ences, their  adventures,  their  opinions.    It  is  the  common  staple. 

The  personal  item  in  the  newspaper  is  a  recognition  of  this 
native  curiosity.  However  clumsily  that  item  may  be  written,  the 
appeal  is  sure.  The  country  weekly  becomes  a  welcome  visitor  to 
the  man  who  has  left  the  village  of  his  boyhood  and  made  a  niche 
for  himself  in  the  big  city.  That  paper  tells  him  of  the  men  and 
women  he  used  to  know.  It  renews  the  bond  of  old  acquaintance. 
The  metropolitan  paper,  crowded  as  it  is  with  records  of  larger 
and  more  significant  events,  is  no  less  a  chronicler  of  the  house- 
hold talk  of  the  town.  In  its  social  columns,  in  its  paragraphs  on 
sports  and  theaters,  and  in  its  comments  on  business  and  business 
men  it  is  just  as  surely  dealing  with  people  and  with  their  small 
concerns  as  is  the  paper  from  the  rural  district. 

Names  widen  the  boundaries  of  newspaper  influence.  They  make 
readers  —  insure  attention.  Every  man  has  a  hundred  friends 
who  respond  to  the  mention  of  his  name  as  to  the  ringing  of  a 
bell.  The  more  names,  the  more  personal  paragraphs,  the  larger 
the  audience  of  any  newspaper.    Names  are  makers  of  circulation. 


2  IVl'lLAL   NKW.Sl'Al'KK   STORIES 

In  the  face  of  these  facts,  however,  many  newspapers  fail 
lamentably  in  the  gathering  and  writing  of  personal  paragraphs. 
Generally  these  consist  of  a  catalogue  of  names,  often  misspelled, 
cast  in  timeworn  conventional  settings.  No  attempt  has  been 
made  to  depart  from  beaten  paths  or  to  give  the  daily  record  the 
personal  glow  that  by  right  belongs  to  it.  In  this  the  country 
correspondent  is  often  at  fault  when  he  allows  his  letters  to  circle 
round  a  small  restricted  area.  Painstaking  industry  and  a  real 
kinship  for  people  bring  many  interesting  bits  of  personal  experi- 
ence to  the  surface.  It  takes  constant  attention  to  the  sources  of 
news,  an  alert  curiosity,  and  a  degree  of  literary  dexterity  to  make 
a  column  of  personal  items  more  than  a  dull  catalogue  of  meager 
details,  familiar  names,  and  trivial  week-end  visits. 

Possibly  the  device  of  parallel  columns  may  prove  useful  in 
showing  how  a  commonplace  item  may  be  converted  into  a  read- 
able paragraph  by  the  addition  of  a  few  details  secured  by  thorough 
investigation. 


TIIF.   ITEM  AS  ORIGINALLY 
PRINTED 

(i)  Judge  Robert  F.  McMurray, 
who  has  been  seriously  sick  at  his 
home,  shows  signs  of  improvement. 


(2)  Lewis  H.  Seeling,  of  Paxico, 
Kans.,  is  visiting  his  daughter,  Sister 
Anita,  of  the  convent. 


THE  ITEM  AS  IT  MIGHT  HAVE 
BEEN  PRINTED 

(i)  Judge  Robert  F.  McMurray, 
of  the  circuit  court,  who  was  sud- 
denly taken  ill  on  a  visit  to  Atlanta 
last  week,  shows  so  much  improve- 
ment that  the  doctors  have  decided 
to  postpone  an  operation  for  ap- 
pendicitis. Judge  McMurray  was 
stricken  three  days  ago  and  since 
then  has  been  confined  to  his  home, 
418  Lakevievv  Drive.  If  he  con- 
tinues to  rally,  all  thought  of  an 
operation  will  be  abandoned. 

(2)  Lewis  H.  Seeling,  who  owns 
a  ranch  at  Paxico,  Kans.,  is  visiting 
his  daughter.  Sister  Anita,  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  convent.  He  is  on 
his  way  home  from  Honda,  where 


PERSONAL  AND  LOCAL  ITEMS 


(3)  Clarence  Williams  retximed 
Saturday  from  Iowa,  where  he  has 
been  shucking  corn. 


(4)  Elmer  Columbia  went  to 
Chetopa  this  morning,  where  he 
goes  to  prosecute  two  forgery  cases. 


(5)  T.  H.  Black,  of  Gallatin,  Mo., 
came  to  Ottawa  yesterday  to  spend 
several  days  looking  over  the  farm- 
ing conditions  here. 


he  has  a  township  of  land.  Mr. 
Seeling  says  he  is  willing  to  let 
any  number  of  people  settle  on 
his  Florida  estate  and  that  he  will 
not  charge  them  rent  or  demand 
any  part  of  the  crop  they  raise. 
"  I  want  the  land  developed,  and  I 
won't  take  a  dollar  or  a  coconut 
from  any  Kansas  man  who  wants 
to  start  a  home  on  my  township," 
he  said.  His  township  is  on  the 
Caloosahatchee  river. 

(3)  Clarence  Williams  returned 
yesterday  from  Iowa,  where  he  has 
been  shucking  corn  for  three  weeks. 
He  said  that  he  husked  78  bushels 
of  corn  in  one  day  while  working 
on  a  farm  near  Des  Moines.  He 
reports  that  the  yield  of  corn  in 
that  vicinity  averaged  as  much  as 
68  bushels  to  the  acre. 

(4)  Deputy  Sheriff  Elmer  Co- 
lumbia left  for  Chetopa,  Okla.,  this 
morning,  where  he  will  help  in  the 
prosecution  of  two  forgers,  Sam 
Jones,  a  student  in  the  University 
of  Missouri,  who  recently  passed  a 
forged  check  for  $136,  and  "  Silver 
Dick  "  Colgan,  a  notorious  Chicago 
criminal,  who  forged  checks  on 
Chetopa  merchants,  amounting  to 
$358. 

(5)  T.  H.  Black,  of  Gallatin,  Mo., 
arrived  in  Ottawa  yesterday  for  a 
several  days'  visit.  While  here  he 
will  spend  some  time  in  looking 
over  the  big  alfalfa  farms.  Alfalfa 
is  just  beginning  to  be  raised  in 


TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


(6)  Rube  Nicholson  was  in  from 
the  north  on  Saturday  on  a  short 
business  trip. 


(7)    Charles    Palmer   came   up 
from  Manhattan  yesterday. 


(8)  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  R.  Bowles 
went  to  Kansas  City  yesterday. 


Missouri  and  Mr.  Black  thinks  he 
can  get  some  valuable  pointers  by 
investigating  crops  in  this  section. 
He  intends  to  visit  the  Gwinn, 
Johnson,  and  Laribee  farms  on 
the  Springfield  Road. 

(6)  Rube  Nicholson,  who  lives 
north  of  town,  spent  Saturday  in 
Rock  Bridge,  where  he  closed  a 
deal  with  Oscar  Smith,  the  real 
estate  agent,  whereby  Mr.  Smith 
became  owner  of  the  Nicholson 
farm,  consisting  of  three  hundred 
acres  of  bottom  land  near  Donithan. 
The  consideration  was  $15,000. 

(7)  Charles  Palmer,  a  horse 
buyer  of  Manhattan,  came  to  Law- 
rence yesterday  to  purchase  horses 
and  mules.  He  is  buying  them  for 
the  English  government,  which  uses 
the  animals  for  war  purposes  in 
Europe.  Mr.  Palmer  is  paying  an 
average  of  $125  for  all  horses  and 
mules,  although  some  bring  con- 
siderably more. 

(8)  Mr.  and  Mrs.  J.  R.  Bowles 
went  to  Kansas  City  yesterday  to 
attend  the  wedding  of  Miss  Myrtle 
Vale  and  John  M.  Rheinhart,  which 
will  take  place  tonight.  The  bride 
is  a  niece  of  Mrs.  Bowles. 


For  the  sake  of  convenient  classification,  news  items  may  be 
divided  into  two  divisions  :  personal  items  and  local  items.  The 
personal  item  deals  particularly  with  men  and  women  and  the 
everyday  routine  of  their  lives.  Often  it  seizes  upon  some  unique 
characteristic  or  point  of  view  as  its  subject  matter.    The  following 


PERSONAL  AND  LOCAL  ITEMS  5 

paragraphs  taken  from  the  Kansas  City  Star  are  good  examples 
of  this  type  of  personal  item  : 

George  H.  Forsee,  industrial  commissioner  of  the  Commercial  Club, 
is  a  Hamlet  fan.  He  has  not  missed  a  "  big  star  "  performance  of  the 
Shakespeare  play  in  the  last  fifteen  years. 

Clyde  Taylor,  attorney,  with  a  street-car  pass  in  his  pocket,  walks  to 
work  every  morning. 

E.  F.  Swinney,  banker,  has  had  two  $50  gold  pieces  in  his  safety  de- 
posit box  for  years.  He  keeps  them  wrapped  in  paper  so  the  gold  will 
not  wear  away. 

An  old  friend  of  William  T.  Kemper,  jealous  of  his  size  but  not  his 
prosperity,  has  worn  the  banker's  cast-off  clothing  for  several  years.  It 
has  reached  the  point  now  where  Mr.  Kemper  has  to  deliver  the  clothing. 
The  friend  refuses  to  go  after  it  any  more. 

One  of  the  boasts  of  R.  A.  Long,  lumber  merchant,  is  that  he  turned 
down  the  biggest  price  ever  offered  for  a  saddle  horse  in  this  country. 

Joseph  Lorie,  capitalist,  has  a  penchant  for  flashy  hats.  One  of  his 
best  creations  is  a  green  one  with  a  small  feather  in  it. 

J.  E.  Guinotte,  probate  judge,  smokes  cigarettes  while  swimming.  He 
dives  and  comes  up  with  a  cigarette  still  in  his  mouth. 

Charles  H.  Moore,  vice  president  of  the  Southwest  National  Bank  of 
Commerce,  can't  learn  to  smoke.  He  has  tried  repeatedly  to  acquire 
the  habit,  but  in  vain. 

William  D.  Jameson,  lavi^yer,  is  a  collector  of  old  violins.  He  occa- 
sionally makes  a  trip  into  old  Mexico  and  in  outlying  settlements,  far 
from  the  beaten  paths  of  travel,  and  buys  violins  hundreds  of  years  old 
and  of  wonderful  tone  quality. 

John  F.  Phillips,  former  judge  of  the  federal  court,  is  a  persistent 
reader  of  Nick  Carter  and  Old  Sleuth  nickel  novels.  He  has  a  collection 
of  thousands  of  them  and  buys  all  the  new  ones  as  they  come  out.  He 
finds  relaxation  for  his  mind  in  this  kind  of  reading. 

George  J.  Braecklein,  architect,  is  an  expert  player  on  the  bones  such 
as  are  used  by  the  minstrel  men.  Another  hobby  of  his  is  the  collection 
of  Indian  relics,  and  he  has  one  of  the  largest  and  best  collections  of 
arrowheads,  pipes,  and  pottery  in  this  part  of  the  country. 


6  1  VrUAL  NKWSrAl'KR  STORIES 

Richard  H.  Field,  lawyer,  has  a  collection  of  scrap  books  in  which  for 
forty  years  he  has  pasted  the  verses  and  articles  that  pleased  him  in 
newspapers  and  other  periodicals. 

Dr.  A.  M.  Wilson  is  an  amateur  magician  and  is  so  good  at  it  that  he 
often  appears  as  an  entertainer  at  public  gatherings. 

Henry  Schott,  advertising  broker  —  a  brainy  one,  too  —  has  a  dent 
in  his  head  an  inch  or  so  deep,  received  playing  football  at  the  University 
of  Kansas. 

Clarence  Trigg,  grading  clerk  at  the  city  hall,  walks  ten  times  around 
his  home  block  each  night  after  dinner,  rain  or  shine.  The  distance 
totals  slightly  more  than  three  miles. 

Harold  E.  Ketchum,  of  the  Graff  Construction  Company,  builder  of 
the  $600,000  Twelfth  Street  Viaduct,  will  be  the  first  man  to  complete 
a  big  contract  on  time  for  Kansas  City. 

Ernest  de  Vigne,  agricultural  expert  for  the  board  of  education,  likes 
to  get  out  in  a  corner  of  his  backyard,  after  the  day's  work  is  done,  and 
take  a  large  quiet  chew  of  smoking  tobacco.  Sometimes  he  puts  a  pinch 
or  two  in  a  pipe  and  smokes  it,  but  usually  he  chews  it. 

Jarvis  Hunt,  architect  for  the  Commerce  Building  and  the  new  Union 
Station,  is  a  man  of  strong  likes  and  dislikes.  Above  all,  he  hates  a 
camera.  No  newspaper  photographer  has  ever  been  able  to  get  within 
speaking  distance  of  him  and  he  looks  upon  all  small  black  boxes  with 
suspicion. 

Walt  Mason,  the  poet  philosopher  of  Emporia,  goes  to  the  second- 
hand bookstores  at  least  once  a  week  and  browses  around  for  some  real 
bloodcurdling  story.  The  more  blood  that  is  spilled  the  better  "  Uncle 
Walt  "  enjoys  his  discoveries. 

Charles  M.  Rush,  attorney,  attends  very  few  funerals.  His  theory, 
religiously  carried  out  with  his  friends,  is  "  flowers  for  the  living." 

Williarri  D.  McLeod,  of  the  law  firm  of  Warner,  Dean,  McLeod  & 
Langworthy,  imports  novels  written  in  Italian,  French,  and  Spanish, 
which  he  reads  for  recreation.    He  has  a  large  library  of  those  books. 

William  Allen  White  of  Emporia  often  whiles  away  his  spare  time  at 
the  piano.  When  he  was  a  boy  in  Eldorado  he  used  to  play  for  dances 
and  he  knows  a  lot  of  the  songs  that  were  popular  thirty  years  ago. 


PERSONAL  AND  LOCAL  ITEMS  7 

M.  Bogulawski,  the  pianist,  has  his  little  vanity-hats,  and  is  particular 
how  he  wears  them.  The  sight  of  a  man's  hat  even  the  least  bit  on  one 
side  is  a  horror  to  him. 

Francis  M.  Wilson,  United  States  district  attorney,  is  an  expert  on 
"  country  hams."  He  can  tell  by  a  single  taste  what  wood  was  used  in 
the  curing,  and  all  the  spice.  Incidentally,  his  "  smokehouse  "  up  in 
Platte  County  generally  is  filled  with  prize  hams. 

The  local  item,  on  the  other  hand,  has  more  than  a  personal 
flavor.  It  is  a  trifle  more  significant  than  the  personal  paragraph, 
because  it  adds  an  episode  or  an  event.  No  better  examples  of 
the  local  item  can  be  found  anywhere  than  in  the  pages  of  the 
Atchison  Globe,  edited  for  thirty  years  by  E.  W.  Howe,  who  never 
ceases  to  be  a  reporter  along  familiar  byways.  The  paper  has  won 
a  national  audience  and  is  a  household  necessity  in  the  Atchison 
territory.  One  of  the  reasons  for  the  Globe  s  prosperity  and  suc- 
cess is  to  be  found  in  the  personal  appeal.  Items  have  been  found 
along  the  street,  in  stores  and  shops,  down  country  lanes,  on 
hotel  registers,  at  the  railroad  station,  eveiywhere.  They  are  like 
the  intimate  chitchat  of  a  family  under  the  evening  lamp.  They 
are  crowded  with  little  enlightening  human  touches.  The  half 
dozen  that  follow  are  from  the  pen  of  Mr.  Howe,  who  from  the 
elevation  of  his  country  home  on  Potato  Hill,  still  sends  to  the 
Globe  rambling  notes  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances. 

While  hauling  apples,  last  week,  Will  Shelly  lost  his  coat  off  the  wagon, 
and  inserted  the  following  in  the  Globe:  "The  party  who  picked  up  a 
brown  coat  on  the  Leavenworth  road  is  known,  and  unless  the  coat  is 
returned,  an  arrest  will  follow."  The  following  day,  Mr.  Shelly  received 
this  letter:  "Dear  Mr.  Shelly:  Since  you  know  who  has  your  coat,  come 
and  get  it." 

Will  Robinson,  who  is  employed  by  Thomas  Ricketts,  says  he  can  husk 
two  hundred  and  fifty  bushels  of  corn  per  day.  Dr.  Robinson  is  about 
twenty-four  years  old,  and  is  at  present  engaged  in  cutting  cord  wood, 
at  $1.25  per  cord.  He  cuts  a  little  over  a  cord  a  day.  If  the  corn  crop 
were  big  enough  to  warrant  giving  him  work  at  husking,  and  he  should 
husk  two  hundred  and  fifty  bushels  a  day,  he  would  receive  $12.50  for 
a  day's  work. 


8  'IVrUAL   M:\VSrAl'KR  STORIES 

Among  the  ten  apple  pickers  at  the  Coffey  orchard  are  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Ed  Saeton.  These  people  own  a  good  farm  south  of  Everest,  but  prefer 
to  rent  it,  and  make  a  living  "  working  out."  They  live  on  South  Sev- 
enth street,  in  Atchison,  and  Mrs.  Saeton  is  said  to  be  a  bf'tter  apple 
picker  than  her  husband ;  indeed,  she  is  said  to  pick  more  apples  than 
Jap  Coffey,  the  hardest  worker  in  the  neighborhood.  Apple  pickers 
average  eighteen  to  twenty  bushels  each  per  day,  in  picking  small 
apples  like  the  Winesap,  and  receive  twenty  cents  per  hour.  The  Coffey 
orchard  will  produce  about  two  thousand  bushels. 

The  Potato  Hill  people  are  laughing  at  Roy  Lister.  For  years  he  has 
been  telling  the  neighbors  that  he  can  take  a  hazel  switch,  and  locate  a 
well  that  will  always  produce  plenty  of  water.  Lately  Mr.  Lister  had 
occasion  to  dig  a  well  on  his  own  farm.  He  located  it  with  particular 
care,  by  means  of  his  knowledge  of  hazel  switches.  He  has  already 
gone  down  seventy  feet,  part  of  the  way  through  rock,  and  there  is  no 
water  in  sight  yet.  Bert  Raulston,  a  neighbor,  dug  his  well  without 
water  witching,  and  found  plenty  of  water  at  thirty  feet. 

John  Harman,  who  was  a  soldier  during  the  Civil  War,  says  that  a 
cook  in  his  company  could  make  bread,  ready  to  eat,  within  twenty-five 
minutes,  out  of  flour  in  the  barrel,  without  pans,  cooking  utensils,  range 
or  stove.  His  method  was  to  knock  in  the  head  of  the  barrel ;  scoop  a 
hole  in  the  top  of  the  flour ;  pour  into  this  hole  water,  with  salt  and,  if 
available,  baking  powder  or  yeast ;  mix  up  the  dough  in  this  flour-lined 
kneading  pan  and  pat  it  into  flat  cakes  ;  knock  one  or  two  barrels  apart, 
sharpen  the  staves  at  both  ends,  cut  them  in  two,  stand  them  up  in  front 
of  the  fire,  slap  a  cake  of  the  dough  on  each  of  these  shingles,  and, 
when  it  was  done  on  one  side,  turn  it  over  and  roast  it  on  the  other. 
—  Atchison  Globe 


I 


II 

LITTLE  STORIES  WELL  TOLD 

'"  Boil  it  down  "  is  an  office  commandment  constantly  dinned 
into  the  ears  of  the  '"  cub  "  reporter.  The  dictum  has  a  degree  of 
truth  in  it,  since  all  stories  must  be  trimmed  of  superfluous  details 
to  allow  space  for  the  vast  torrent  of  news  that  pours  into  the 
newspaper  office  every  day  and  every  night.  But  brevity  is  not 
always  a  merit.  If,  in  the  effort  to  be  brief,  the  reporter  sacrifices 
clearness,  interest,  and  accuracy,  he  has  made  a  sorry  mess  of 
what  he  set  out  to  write.  To  express  adequately  the  idea  in  mind, 
whether  it  be  in  few  words  or  in  many,  that  is  the  goal  of  the 
best  newspaper  writing.  When  the  idea  has  been  clearly  and 
boldly  presented  then  it  is  time  to  stop. 

These  considerations  do  not  in  any  sense  minimize  the  impor- 
tance of  eliminating  minor  details  and  stylistic  embellishments. 
The  ability  to  "  feel  "  a  story,  to  grasp  instinctively  its  essentials, 
and  then  to  assemble  the  facts  in  a  simple,  straightforward  narra- 
tive, is  the  one  quality  that  differentiates  the  seasoned  newspaper 
man  from  the  beginner. 

Good  newspaper  writing  is  conversational,  easy,  natural,  interest- 
ing. It  drives  home  the  fundamental  fact  in  the  opening  sentence, 
then  runs  swiftly  to  a  conclusion.  At  its  best  it  is  rugged,  clear-cut, 
wasting  little  time  on  labored  sentences  and  "  literary  "  finish.  To 
put  a  medley  of  ill-assorted  facts  into  short  meter  is  not  to  stifle 
imagination  or  to  neglect  the  full  possibilities  of  the  tale.  Quite 
the  contrary  is  true.  The  winnowing  of  chaff  from  the  grain 
requires  a  discriminating  appraisal  of  news  values. 

The  following  stories  are  offered  as  specimens  of  minor  inci- 
dents and  events  well  handled.  The  first  four  specimens,  in 
particular,  are  admirable  examples  of  condensation  and  compact- 
ness. The  others  show  how  commonplace  incidents  may  be 
made  readable  by  a  deft  touch  and  a  wise  selection  of  details. 

9 


lO  'IVriCAL  NKWSl'AI'KR  STORIES 

This  is  the  A  H  C  of  intensive  farming : 

Mearl  May,  a  14-ycar-old  boy  of  Auglaize  County,  by  himself,  on  one 
acre  of  land,  raised  143  bushels  of  corn,  at  a  cost  of  $17.48.  This  corn 
How  a  boy  ^^  ^he  present  moment  has  a  market  value  of  almost  an 
raised  corn  ^-yen  $100.  The  average  for  the  men  of  Ohio,  over  a  period 
of  10  years,  is  35  bushels  to  the  acre,  so  this  14-ycar-old  youth  has  gone 
his  elders  400  per  cent  better. 

Mere  are  some  of  the  things  which  Mearl  did  to  get  his  big  crop : 

He  tile-drained  his  field.  Agricultural  experts  figure  that  the  increase 
in  yield  of  corn  by  tile-draining  pays  for  the  cost  of  the  tile  the  first  year. 

He  tested  his  seed  corn. 

He  sowed  com  from  his  father's  farm. 

He  worked  his  crop  five  times,  three  times  deep  and  twice  lightly. 

He  worked  his  field  until  it  was  like  a  garden  before  he  planted  his  seed. 

How  did  he  figure  his  cost?  He  charged  his  labor  at  121V  cents  per 
hour  and  the  use  of  horses  at  10  cents  per  hour  per  animal  employed. 
Then  he  added  6  per  cent  of  the  value  of  his  land.  All  this  amounted  to 
$17.48,  so  it  is  apparent  that  this  work  did  not  take  all  the  boy's  time, 
but  left  him  leisure  to  play  marbles,  fly  kites  and  gather  the  eggs. 

His  entire  crop  weighed  exactly  9565  pounds.  Taking  100  pounds 
in  the  ear,  it  was  found  to  shell  84  pounds,  which  is  a  big  percentage. 
.Ml  these  facts  have  been  certified  to  the  state  board  of  agriculture. 

It  is  A.  P.  Sandles'  answer  to  the  question:  "Does  intensive  farm- 
ing pay  ?  "  —  Ohio  State  Jourtial 

JoLiET,  111.,  Oct.  27. —  Two  escaped  convicts  raced  down  the  main 
street  of  this  city  tonight  a  hundred  yards  ahead  of  a  score  of  prison 
p  .  guards  armed  with  shotguns,  while  pedestrians  dodged  into 

guards  chase  doorways  to  avoid  the  shots  fired  at  the  fugitives, 
convic  s  r^Y^Q  convicts,  John  Stacy  and  John  Crawford,  under  inde- 

terminate sentence  from  Chicago,  were  caught  in  the  railroad  yards.  They 
escaped  from  the  state's  prison  while  being  marched  back  to  the  cell 
house  tonight. —  Associated  Press  Dispatch 

Bangor,  Me.,  Nov.  26. —  When  a  constable  has  extra  trouble  serving 
a  writ  of  replevin  on  a  heifer  he  must  be  allowed  extra  costs,  under  a 
Moral  —  decision  of  Judge  Rlanchard  in  the  local  court.  Constable 
Don't  chase  Skefifington  Kelso  of  Eddington  told  the  court  that  these 
things  happened  when  he  went  out  to  replevin  a  heifer  in 
cr.nnfTtir,n  with  a  civil  suit: 


LITTLE  STORIES  WELL  TOLD  II 

Animal  led  him  a  chase  through  four  miles  of  swamp. 

Heifer  circuited  a  mountain. 

Vicious  dog  held  up  capture  of  heifer  for  two  hours. 

Kelso  broke  through  ice  twice. 

Stepped  into  a  mink  trap. 

Lost  his  jackknife. 

Tore  his  clothing  and  ruined  his  shoes. 

Also  he  was  held  up  to  derision  by  a  young  woman  who  wrote  a 
funny  poem  about  his  chase  and  read  it  at  a  grange  meeting. —  St. 
Louis  Fost-Dispaich 

Dunkirk,  N.Y.,  Jan.  i8.  —  Three  men  entered  the  saloon  of  Alex- 
ander Matuschiwiz  here  early  today,  called  for  drinks,  asked  Matuschiwiz 

,  to  join  them,  put  knockout  drops  in  his  glass  when  his  back 

A  new  way  j  >  r  r  & 

of  cracking  was  turned,  moved  his  thousand-pound  safe  outdoors,  blew  it 
*  ®^  ®  open  with  dynamite,  secured  $2500  in  cash  and  escaped. 

Neighbors,  attracted  by  the  explosion,  got  medical  assistance  for  Matu- 
schiwiz, who  was  revived  later.  There  is  no  clue  to  the  identity  of  the 
trio.  —  Associated  Press  Dispatch 

Henry  Pope,  25  years  old,  shot  and  killed  William  Britton,  30  years 
old,  at  Bonner  Springs  shortly  before  noon  today.  Pope  works  nights  at  a 
g,  .  cement  plant.   When  he  returned  home  this  morning  his  wife 

by  angry         was  not  at  home.     Pope  went  to  the  home  of  Britton  and 
"^  ^  found  Mrs.  Pope  there.   A  quarrel  followed,  which  culminated 

in  Pope's  shooting  Britton.  The  sheriff  of  Wyandotte  County  arrested 
Pope  and  took  him  to  the  Wyandotte  County  jail. —  Kansas  City  Star 

When  Sigmund  Luft  locked  up  his  lunch  room  at  338  West  Van 

Buren  street  Saturday  night  he  made  the  mistake  of  leaving  a  large 

porterhouse  steak  in  the  window,  resting  on  a  cake  of  ice. 
When 
thieves  break       Detectives  Carlin  and  Kelly  of  Central  detail,  passing  the 

through  and    lunch  room  yesterday  morning,  stopped  to  admire  the  steak. 

A  couple  of  hours  later,  when  they  passed  Luffs  place  again, 

the  steak  had  disappeared.    Over  the  transom  of  the  deserted  restaurant 

a  savory  odor  was  drifting  and  a  cheerful  sputtering  was  audible. 

Carlin  nodded  significantly  at  Kelly  and  gave  his  attention  to  the 

door.    The  lock  was  broken.    The  detectives  walked  in  and  tiptoed  back 

to  the  kitchen.    A  man  whose  eyes  shone  with  pleasurable  expectation 

stood  in  front  of  the  gas  range,  adjusting  the  flame  under  a  frying  pan. 


12  TVi'lCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

In  tlic  pan  lay  the  porterhouse.  Looking  up.  he  caught  the  gleam  of 
Carlin's  star. 

"  Don't  take  me  yet,  officer,"  he  begged.  "  Let  me  stow  this  steak 
away  first." 

But  the  porterhouse  burglar  went,  hungry,  to  the  station.  His  captors 
carried  along  the  steak  as  evidence. 

"  My  name  is  Erank  Kelly  and  I  came  from  Seattle  here  two  weeks 
ago,"  he  told  the  desk  sergeant.  "  I  could  n't  find  a  job  and  I  'm  stone 
broke.  I  would  have  broken  into  the  vault  of  the  First  National  bank 
to  get  that  steak,  I  was  so  hungry." —  Chicago  Tribune 

New  York,  Nov.  i6. —  Ignorance  of  college  students  regarding  classi- 
cal and  biblical  allusions  in  English  literature,  a  limited  vocabulary  and  fail- 
P  ..  .  ,  ure  to  grasp  modern  European  languages  are  unwelcome  facts 
students  which  have  been  brought  out  by  the  Columbia  School  of 
*"  ^^  Journalism  during  the  first  two  years  of  its  existence,  accord- 

ing to  the  annual  report  made  by  President  Nicholas  Murray  Butler. 

The  director  of  the  journalistic  school  has  pointed  out,  the  report  says, 
"  the  very  poor  grasp  of  a  modem  European  language  on  the  part  of 
those  who  profess  to  have  studied  this  language  for  some  time  in  school 
or  in  college  or  both ;  the  shocking  ignorance  of  classical  and  biblical 
allusions  in  English  literature  on  the  part  of  those  who  profess  to  know 
something  of  literary  history  and  to  have  studied  it,  and  the  very  limited 
vocabulary  of  those  who  have  been  receiving  systematic  instruction  for  a 
number  of  years  and  who  are  popularly  supposed  to  have  been  led  to 
read  at  least  some  of  the  great  masters  of  English  style." 

"  It  is  litde  short  of  deplorable,"  President  Butler  added,  "  that  there 
should  be  so  much  and  such  various  evidence  of  the  utter  worthlessness, 
judged  by  lasting  results,  of  a  large  part  of  the  work  done,  or  supposed 
to  be  done,  in  elementary  school,  in  secondary  school,  and  in  college." 
—  Associated  Press  Dispatch 

Death  in  any  form  was  craved  last  night  by  a  prisoner  at  police 
headquarters. 

He  hung  himself  by  his  necktie.    It  broke. 

He  hung  himself  by  his  suspenders.  The  rubber  stretched  until  his 
Wooed  death   feet  touched  the  ground. 

"  *  "^^^  Pie  pounded  his  head  against  the  bars.     He  fell  uncon- 

scious from  the  pain. 


I 


LITTLE  STORIES  WELL  TOLD  1 3 

He  sank  his  head  in  a  bucket  of  water.  The  police,  at  that,  led  him 
to  a  padded  cell,  fearing  the  man's  persistence  might  be  rewarded. 

The  prisoner,  who  gave  the  name  of  Chris  Olson,  23  years  old,  had 
been  arrested  at  the  Union  Station  by  Jack  Farrell  and  I.  B.  Walston, 
city  detectives,  on  suspicion  that  he  had  been  connected  with  a  safe 
robbery  at  Parsons,  Kans.  —  Kansas  City  Star 

New  York's  craze  for  dancing  has  passed  out  of  favor  with  hotel  men. 

So  said  Thomas  D.  Green,  proprietor  of  the  Woodward  Hotel,  at  the 

rr„*  1  „  thirty-sixth  annual  dinner  of  the  Hotel  Association  of  New 

Hotel  men  -' 

tired  of  danc-  York  last  night.  The  hotel  men  met  at  the  Waldorf-Astoria, 
ing   raze  Competing  with  the  vaudeville  theaters  and  "  giving  a 

show  with  every  highball"  is  not  what  it's  pictured,  said  Mr.  Green. 
Hotel  men  have  no  reason  to  love  the  dancing  craze  and  cabaret  era,  he 
said,  for  they  are  costing  them  money.  A  return  to  the  good  old  days, 
when  a  hotel  dining  room  was  a  place  in  which  to  get  something  to  eat 

—  that 's  the  thing  that  is  needed,  said  Mr.  Green. 

All  in  all,  though,  it  was  a  big  night  for  the  hotel  men.  They  were 
all  there  —  those  now  in  the  business  and  those  who  have  retired,  like 
Simeon  Ford.    They  all  said  they  saw  prosperity  ahead. 

George  C.  Boldt,  of  the  Waldorf,  deprecated  just  a  little  bit  the  New 
York  tendency  to  put  up  another  big  hotel  just  as  soon  as  a  few  persons 
are  turned  away  from  some  other  hostelry. 

As  instancing,  however,  the  fact  that  prosperity  may  hold  off  for  a 
while,  he  quoted  the  statement  of  an  English  army  ofificer  that  the  real 
fighting  and  consequent  real  depression  will, not  be  along  until  spring, 

—  New  York  Tribune 

Elizabeth  Carroll,  5  years  old,  was  taken  to  Bellevue  Hospital  yester- 
day so  badly  burned  that  it  is  feared  she  will  not  live.  She  is  the  daugh- 
Kitten  hunt  ter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Carroll,  who  live  in  the  second  floor 
may  cost  life  apartment  of  188  Eighth  avenue.  At  about  5  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  Elizabeth's  kitten  ran  into  the  bathroom  and  hid  under  the  tub. 
The  little  girl  got  a  wisp  of  paper,  lighted  it  and  started  to  hunt  for  the 
kitten.  Her  light  dress  caught  fire  and  she  ran  screaming  through  the 
apartment  and  into  a  bedroom. 

Mrs.  Carroll  was  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  when  she  heard  the 
screams  she  turned  and  saw  her  daughter  on  fire  and  she,  too,  screamed. 

Mrs.  Kathleen  Clapper,  who  occupied  an  adjoining  apartment,  ran  in, 
caught  up  a  blanket  and  wrapped  Elizabeth  in  it,  putting  out  the  flames. 


14  TYPICAL  NEWSl'AI'llR  STORIES 

Dr.  Huddleson,  frum  tlie  New  York  Hospital,  responded  to  the  call 
for  an  ambulance  and  took  the  child  to  Bellevue. — New  York  Sun 

George  Kreiger  of  this  city  has  completed  a  machine  which  will  con- 
siderably lighten  the  work  of  the  farmer. 

A  machine  I^iggi^g   potatoes  was   once   one   of   the   farmer's   back- 

digs  potatoes  breaking  tasks.  That  was  in  the  old  days  when  a  fork  was 
used.  Now  this  is  all  changed.  The  Grand  Rapids  man's  machine  is 
drawn  by  a  horse,  digs  the  potatoes,  cleans  them,  and  hoists  them  into 
the  wagon.    Another  contrivance  will  sack  the  potatoes. 

The  machine  is  operated  by  one  man.  All  he  has  to  do  is  to  drive 
the  horse.  —  Grand  Rapids  (Wis.)  Letter  to  the  Chicago  Tribune 

The  site  of  the  observatory  from  which  the  Declaration  of  Independ- 
ence was  first  read  and  proclaimed  to  the  people  July  8,  1776,  is  to 
„         .  be  marked  by  a  permanent  memorial  by  the  Pennsylvania 

nation's  Society  of  the  Sons  of  the  Revolution. 

birthplace  q^  j^j^  ^^  ^^^^^  Congress  ordered  that  the  Declaration 

of  Independence  be  proclaimed  to  the  people  of  each  of  the  United 
States  and  at  the  head  of  the  army.  Accordingly,  at  noon  Monday, 
July  8,  John  Nixon,  by  popular  appointment  because  of  his  powerful 
voice,  read  the  declaration  from  the  balcony  of  the  observatory  in  the 
state  house  yard  in  the  rear  of  Independence  Hall,  and  proclaimed  to  the 
people  publicly  for  the  first  time  the  independence  of  the  United  States. 

The  site  is  now  marked  by  a  wooden  tablet,  unveiled  by  President  Wil- 
son July  4,  1 9 1 4.  The  event  was  attended  by  thousands  of  persons,  coming 
from  virtually  every  part  of  the  Nation.  —  Philadelphia  Evening  Ledger 

New  Brunswick,  N.J.,  Nov.  15.  —  Taking  a  nap  in  his  buggy  cost 
Robert  Green,  35,  of  Oldbridge,  near  here,  $42  in  cash,  a  gold  watch  and 
Takes  fire  in  chain,  a  suit  of  clothes,  and  a  two  miles'  walk  home  early 
his  sleep         ^^ig  morning. 

Green  had  been  to  visit  his  brother  in  the  country,  and  it  was  after 
midnight  when  he  started  to  drive  home.  He  placed  his  lighted  lantern 
at  his  feet  in  the  buggy,  and  as  old  Dan  jogged  along  the  country  road 
Green  dozed  off.  The  lantern  set  fire  to  his  trousers,  and  they  had 
burned  up  to  his  knees  before  Green  awoke.  He  jumped  out  and  began 
to  tear  off  his  clothing.  He  was  badly  burned  about  the  body  before  he 
had  stripped  off  the  blazing  garments,  and  then  he  was  amazed  to  discover 
that  old  Dan  had  kept  right  on  toward  home. 


LITTLE  STORIES  WELL  TOLD  15 

Green  had  to  walk  the  two  miles  along  the  road  in  only  his  undercloth- 
ing and  his  shoes.  He  had  $42  in  cash  in  his  trousers  and  a  gold  watch 
and  chain  in  his  vest,  but  the  fire  made  short  work  of  these. 

When  he  reached  home  he  found  that  the  lantern  had  also  set  fire  to 
the  buggy,  and  all  that  was  left  of  it  was  the  running  gear  and  the  four 
wheels.  —  New  York  Sun 

Three  grandsons  of  Baptist  ministers  assisted  Dr.  W.  S.  Abernethy  in 
a  children's  service  at  the  First  Baptist  Church  yesterday  morning.  The 
Lads  a  boys  were  :  Theodore  Abernethy,  son  of  the  pastor ;  William 

pastor's  aids  Brown,  son  of  D.  A.  Brown ;  and  Pryor  Sheldon,  son  of 
W.  A.  Sheldon.  The  boys  read  from  the  Scriptures,  announced  the 
hymns,  and  led  in  the  responsive  readings. 

Doctor  Abernethy's  subject  was  "  A  Beehive,"  and  it  had  its  lessons 
for  the  grown-ups  as  well  as  the  youngsters.  A  large  picture  of  a  beehive 
with  a  lot  of  busy  bees  buzzing  around  and  a  few  sleepy  drones  served 
to  illustrate  Doctor  Abernethy's  talk  for  the  benefit  of  the  children. 

In  conclusion  he  gave  this  recipe  for  a  Happy  New  Year : 


Be  Busy  Be  Helpful 

Be  Cheerful 

Be  Thorough  Be  Dependable 


—  Kansas  City  Stat 

Four  animals  and  an  equal  number  of  birds,  collected  by  the  University 

of  Pennsylvania's  Amazon  exploration  expedition,  were  received  yesterday 

at  the  Zoo.   A  guan,  included  in  the  consignment,  was  found 
Zoo  gets  ,      ,     ,        .  - 

specimens       dead  when  its  cage  was  opened  on  its  arrival  at  the  gardens. 

from  Penn  Head  Keeper  Manley  went  to  New  York  Saturday  and 

Expedition  .  . 

arranged  to  have  the  animals  and  birds  brought  to  this  city 

by  express.    He  said  yesterday  that,  excepting  the  guan,  all  had  stood  the 

trip  well,  and  that  they  have  been  placed  in  secluded  cages  to  rest  up  and 

overcome  the  effects  of  the  long  sea  voyage.  All  are  from  Brazil  and  Peru, 

and  the  cold  weather  had  much  effect  on  them.     Mr.  Manley  said  he 

thought  the  cold  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  death  of  the  guan. 

A  young  jaguar  is  the  largest  animal  in  the  collection.    An  ocelot,  an 

agouti  of  the  common  South  American  type,  and  a  night  monkey,  which 

will  be  placed  in  the  monkey  house,  are  the  most  interesting  new  friends 

from  South  America. 


l6  rVPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

The  birds  include  a  curassow,  a  coot,  a  yellow-headed  conure,  or 
parrot,  and  a  small  bird  which  Head  Keeper  Manley  could  not  name. 
—  Philadelphia  North  American 

A  ride  on  a  blazing  load  of  hay  brought  Frank  Bindevold,  21  years 
old,   of   Norcatur,    Kans.,   to   Bethany   Hospital  yesterday.     Dr.  Hugh 
.  -      Wilkinson,  who   is  treating  him,  says  he   must  remain   in 

hay  caught     the  hospital  several  weeks. 

^'  "  I  was  driving  from  home  to  town,"  he  said,  "'  when  the 

hay  caught  fire.    I  tried  to  put  it  out,  the  horses  ran  away  and  when  I 
finally  got  things  righted  my  clothing  was  on  fire." 

Both  his  legs  are  badly  burned  below  the  knees.  —  Kansas  City  Star 

Washington,  Jan.  14.  —  Because  so  very  many  Americans  are  so 

careless  about  remembering  their  birthdays,  their  age  or  the  year  of 

^         ^  ,      their  birth,  the  United  States  Public  Health  Service  issued  a 
Your  natal  ' 

day,  does  it     bulletin  today,  in  which  it  says : 

s  ip  away  u  Perhaps  the  easiest  way  to  remember  your  age  is  to  form 

some  little  jingle  or  rhyme  on  your  birth  year.    For  instance : 

In  eighteen  hundred  and  ninety-seven 
Little  Johnnie  came  from  heaven. 
Or 

In  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty-two 
Baby  Susie  began  to  '  boo.'  " 

It  is  a  common  occurrence,  according  to  the  Public  Health  reports,  to 
find  children,  even  of  high  school  age,  who  cannot  tell  how  old  they  are. 
It  is  pointed  out  that  marriage  licenses,  inheritances  and  the  right  of 
franchise  depend  on  approximately  accurate  evidence  as  to  age.  But  on 
the  point  of  the  rhyming  device  the  Public  Health  Service  also  suggests : 

"  Never  mind  what  the  rhyme  is,  just  so  you  remember  it,  and  if,  after 
reaching  the  age  of  forty,  you  want  to  prove  you  are  only  twenty-three, 
why,  simply  change  the  rhyme,  and  perhaps  people  will  believe  the  rhyme 
if  they  won't  believe  you."  —  New  York  Tribune 

It  will  cost  Policeman  Ernest  Noble,  of  the  Greenwich  street  station, 
%12,  for  being  a  hero  last  night.  When  half  a  dozen  women  screamed 
Cost  $33  to  "  Fife  I  "  from  the  windows  of  various  floors  of  the  boarding 
be  a  hero  house  at  No.  1 1  Washington  street.  Noble  bravely  ran  up- 
stairs. He  snatched  Mrs.  Jennie  McCarthy  from  her  bed  and  started  to 
carry  her  down  five  flights  to  the  street. 


LITTLE  STORIES  WELL  TOLD  1 7 

Mrs.  McCarthy  weighs  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  and  was  so  ex- 
cited that  she  fought  the  policeman  all  the  way  down,  tearing  his  new 
winter  overcoat  to  shreds.  But  he  saved  her.  A  new  uniform  overcoat 
will  cost  him  $^^.   The  fire  did  little  damage  otherwise.  —  JVew  York  Sun 

Sanitary  sandwiches  sliced  under  glass  in  a  vacuum  by  machinery  have 
appeared  on  the  lunch  counters  of  seven  of  the  leading  saloons  of  this 
.        . .  city.    No  hand  touches  them  until  the  fingers  of  the  hungry 

makes  clutch  them  as  they  come  out  of  the  machine. 

san  wic  es  There  have  been  contrivances  which  when  money  went 

into  a  slot  exuded  a  sandwich  wrapped  in  oiled  paper,  but  this  intelligent 
mechanism  can  make  a  sandwich  fresh  every  second.  There  are  types 
of  it  now  in  process  of  construction  which  are  less  generous,  but  the 
one  in  a  cafe'  in  John  street,  where  there  is  an  interesting  exhibition  of 
art  works,  is  not  stingy. 

It  consists  of  three  vacuum  tubes  of  glass  set  up  side  by  side,  like  a 
colonnade,  and  resting  on  a  base  in  which  the  working  parts  are  deftly 
masked.  The  middle  column  is  square  and  it  is  filled  with  six-inch 
sections  of  cheese  piled  on  top  of  each  other.  On  either  side  of  it  is  a 
column  stuffed  with  crackers.  Both  the  cheese  and  the  crackers  are 
delivered  to  the  saloon  in  cartridges  of  paraffined  paper. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  machine  is  a  lever  with  a  flange.  To  get  a 
sandwich  you  push  in  the  lever.  There  falls  on  a  little  platform  a 
cracker.  At  the  same  time  a  knife  at  the  bottom  of  the  middle  tube 
cuts  off  a  slice  of  cheese  an  eighth  of  an  inch  in  thickness,  which  drops 
on  the  cracker.  The  pushing  back  of  the  lever  lets  fall  another  cracker 
and  releases  a  pusher  which  causes  the  complete  sandwich  to  drop  from 
the  machine.  Ham,  corned  beef  or  any  other  meat  may  also  be  used. 
—  New  York  Herald 


Ill 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES 


With  a  Suggested  Method  of  Study 

When  a  newspaper  man  speaks  of  a  "  story  "  he  does  not  mean 
a  fictitious  narrative,  but  a  faithful  recital  of  the  events  of  every- 
day life.  In  setting  down  these  facts  he  does  not  aim,  primarily, 
to  mystify  or  to  thrill,  but  to  picture  a  news  fact  with  simplicity  and 
directness.  The  novelist  builds  up  a  narrative  so  that  he  may 
create  suspense  or  awaken  an  emotional  response  in  the  heart  of 
his  reader  ;  the  reporter  endeavors  to  satisfy  a  busy  man's  curiosity 
for  information. 

The  same  facts  in  news-story 

form    present     themselves     as 

follows : 

Wives  and  mothers  of  the  strik- 
ing switchmen  stormed  the  general 
offices  of  the  G.  P.  this  morning 
and,  hurling  bricks  through  the  plate 
glass  windows,  fatally  injured  Pres- 
ident V.  L.  Gates  and  seriously 
wounded  two  directors,  H.  P.  Miles 
and  T.  N.  Hartman.  The  attack 
was  the  culmination  etc. 


Hc7'e  is  an  example  of  rhetor- 
ical narrative : 

The  switchmen  of  the  United 
States  struck  for  higher  wages. 
They  maintained  their  position 
stoutly  and  were  opposed  no  less 
stubbornly  by  the  railroads.  They 
were  especially  bitter  toward  the 
G.  P.,  which  had  been  successful 
in  moving  its  trains  by  strike 
breakers.  At  the  end  of  two  months, 
the  strikers  and  their  families  were 
reduced  to  starvation.  In  their  des- 
peration, the  wives  and  mothers  of 
the  strikers  assembled,  marched  to 
the  general  offices  of  the  G.  P.  and 
hurled  stones  through  the  plate- 
glass  windows.  President  Gates 
was  fatally  injured  and  two  direc- 
tors were  severely  wounded  by  the 
flying  brickbats. 


i8 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES  19 

The  news  story  reverses  the  process  of  ordinary  Hterary  compo- 
sition. Instead  of  mounting  to  a  strong  chmax,  it  gives  a  complete 
summary  of  important  events  at  the  outset.  The  paragraphs  that 
follow  the  introduction  round  out  the  story,  adding  causes,  inci- 
dents, situations  in  the  relative  order  of  their  significance.  The 
structure  may  be  compared  to  an  inverted  pyramid. 

The  experienced  writer  of  news  stories  has  such  a  working  plan 
to  guide  him  when  he  sets  out  to  assemble  the  raw  materials  of 
his  observations  and  investigations.  He  must  work  within  certain 
limits  and  so  adapt  the  story  that  it  may  fulfill  definite  office 
requirements.  But  if  he  is  to  make  that  story  more  than  a  dull 
tabulation  of  naked  episodes,  he  must  allow  his  personality  and  his 
literary  sense  to  work  upon  it.  How  has  he  seen  it  t  What  is  its 
inherent  interest  for  him  ?  How  may  he  translate  that  interest 
into  a  vivid,  truthful,  crystal-clear  narrative  that  will  make  profita- 
ble reading  ?  At  this  point  he  touches  the  hem  of  literature.  He 
has  become  a  literary  craftsman,  searching  for  the  best  methods  of 
presenting  his  idea.  He  strives  to  utilize  every  legitimate  device 
to  win  the  reader's  notice  and  to  enchain  his  attention. 

The  skillful  reporter's  first  care  is  to  construct  an  introductory 
sentence  or  paragraph  —  called  a  lead  by  newspaper  men  —  which 
reveals  the  facts  through  a  medium  at  once  simple,  exact  and 
interesting.  If  the  lead  is  well  done  the  remainder  of  the  story 
falls  naturally  into  place. 

The  lead  may  take  the  form  of  a  bit  of  dialogue,  a  striking 
quotation,  a  sudden  disclosure,  or  a  commanding  feature  of  a 
group  -of  facts.  The  reporter  answers  such  fundamental  questions 
as  Who  ?  What  ?  Where  ?  Why  f  When  ?  How  ?  In  doing  so 
he  tries  to  make  his  presentation  swift,  complete,  accurate.  If  a 
lead  necessitates  a  second  reading,  it  is  guilty  of  obscurity.  Almost 
every  story  carries  within  itself  its  own  method  of  presentation.  A 
reporter  recognizes  the  feature  that  demands  emphasis  almost  by 
instinct.  Sometimes  the  lead  may  shape  itself  into  a  short  incisive 
sentence.  This  is  known  in  the  newspaper  office  as  a  "cartridge," 
because  it  sends  a  bullet  of  thought  swift  to  the  target.  The  other 
type  of  lead  is  known  as  the  "  straightaway"  or  the  "  clothesline," 
which  assembles  a  long  array  of  relevant  details  into  an  all-inclusive 


20 


TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


paragraph.  The  fi^j^ure  is  particularly  apt  because  all  the  essential 
facts  are  strung  upon  a  single  rhetorical  thread.  The  structure 
of  the  two  leads  may  be  illustrated  thus  : 


"CARTRIDGE"  LEADS 

The  Morris  book-shop,  71  East 
Adams  street,  is  in  bankruptcy. 

President  Woodrow  Wilson  be- 
came a  grandfather  today. 

"  Sky  Pilot "  Frank  Higgins  is 
dead. 

Max  Goldstein,  fence  for  the 
"  millionaire  dollar  burglar  trust," 
has  confessed. 

George  G.  Newell  is  an  auditor. 
Figures  and  statistics  and  chickens 
are  his  hobbies.  Efficiency  is  his 
watchword. 

Billy  Sunday,  evangelist,  rested 
yesterday. 


"CLOTHESLINE"  LEADS 

One  woman  dead,  172  men, 
women  and  children  so  badly  in- 
jured they  were  taken  to  hospitals 
and  more  than  500  others  partly 
asphyxiated,  bruised  or  battered  in 
a  stampede  of  2000  through  chok- 
ing, poisonous  smoke  ;  the  complete 
suspension  of  all  traffic  on  the  en- 
tire subway  system  of  the  city  for 
eight  and  a  half  hours  and  the  crip- 
pling of  the  plant  for  several  days 
at  least  —  these  were  the  results  of 
the  simultaneous  burning  of  two  big 
feeder  cables  following  a  short  circuit 
of  the  current  at  Fifty-third  street 
and  Broadway  yesterday  morning. 

Maurice  Deiches,  the  lawyer  and 
Tammany  Chairman  of  the  Nine- 
teenth Assembly  District,  who  was 
arrested  on  Saturday  night  in  Phila- 
delphia, by  the  Federal  Department 
of  Justice  agents,  charged  with  be- 
ing a  conspirator  to  defraud  the 
United  States  in  connection  with 
the  issuances  of  fraudulent  pass- 
ports to  German  Army  reservists, 
returned  to  his  home  at  600  West 
115th  street  last  night.  In  the 
morning  he  was  arraigned  before 
United  States  Commissioner  Long 
in  Philadelphia  and  furnished 
$25,000   bail. 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES 


21 


In  the  following  group  of  stories  the  editor  has  endeavored  to 
make  clear  the  service  of  the  lead  and  the  method  of  news  pres- 
entation, by  use  of  annotations,  printed  at  the  side  of  the  various 
thought  divisions.  This  has  been  called  the  laboratory  method,  and 
has  been  utilized  with  good  results  by  J.  Berg  Esenwein  in  his 
book  "  Studying  the  Short  Story."  It  is  believed  that  the  adoption 
of  this  suggestive  method  will  prove  stimulating  in  the  analysis 
of  the  structure  and  development  of  a  somewhat  distinct  type  of 
writing,  the  news  story. 

BOYS  DROWN  COASTING  ON  GIFT  SLEDS 


Three  boys  with  bobsleds  ventured 
into  a  thin  fringe  of  ice  surrounding 
the  casting  pond  in  Washington  Park 
yesterday  afternoon. 

THE  DEAD 

JOSEPH  DEPREG,  8  years  old,  5558 
Drexel  avenue ;  body  found  in  water  four 
hours  after  accident. 

"BILLY"  JACQUES,  6  years  old,  5520 
Drexel  avenue ;  died  in  Washington  Park 
Hospital  a  few  minutes  after  being  taken 
there. 

The  third  boy,  a  negro  playmate  of 
the  two  white  boys,  is  in  the  Washing- 
ton Park  Hospital.  He  may  die.  He 
is  Walter  Russell,  10  years  old,  of  5534 
Drexel  avenue. 

Since  the  recent  visit  of  Santa  Claus 
to  Chicago  "  Billy  "  and  Joseph,  who 
were  born  in  Belgium,  and  their  two 
new  sleds  were  often  seen  on  the 
streets  in  the  neighborhood  of  their 
homes.  The  negro  boy  often  was  with 
them,  enjoying  rides  on  the  treasured 
possessions  of  his  playmates. 

Yesterday  just  after  lunch  the  three 
boys  met.    The  sleds,  as  usual,  were 


First  sentence  is  strikingly 
effective.  The  important  de- 
tails, bearing  on  the  dead  and 
injured  boys,  are  set  forth  com- 
pletely with  full  identification. 
Time,  place  and  circumstances 
are  given  immediately. 

Notice  how  this  black-face 
type,  with  the  list  of  dead,  leaps 
out  at  the  reader.  This  is  the 
important  feature  of  the  story. 
No  element  of  suspense  here. 


The  story  back-tracks  here. 
A  summary  of  events  leading 
up  to  the  coasting  expedition. 
First  mention  of  the  sleds  and 
Christmas.  Good  narrative 
structure  throughout,  with  a 
swift  movement. 


TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


in  evidence.  A  conference  was  held  as 
to  the  most  profitable  way  to  spend 
the  afternoon. 

6  "  I  '11  tell  you,"  said  "'  Billy."  "  Let 's 
go  to  the  park  and  ride  each  other 
around  on  the  pond." 

7  The  suggestion  was  acted  upon  in- 
stantly. 

8  Dragging  the  sleds  behind  them,  they 
trudged  off  to  the  casting  pond,  which  is 
located  in  the  eastern  portion  of  the  park, 
opposite  Fifty-eighth  street  and  about  a 
block  from  Cottage  Grove  avenue. 

9  There  was  a  big  sign  at  the  pond. 
It  read  :  "  Keep  Off  —  Danger." 

10  There  also  was  a  barricade  of  boards, 
but  barricades  are  not  insurmountable 
obstacles  in  the  minds  of  small  boys. 
The  boys  clambered  over. 

1 1  The  pond,  they  observed,  was  skirted 
with  a  fringe  of  ice  running  several 
yards  out  to  a  wide  circle  of  open  water. 
To  an  adult  mind  the  prospect  would 
have  been  impossible  —  to  the  three 
boys  it  was  merely  an  invitation. 

12  "  Now,  which  two  are  going  to  ride 
first  and  who  's  going  to  push  ? "  was 
the  only  question  that  arose. 

13  It  was  decided  by  the  "eeny,  meeny, 
miny,  mo  "  process  of  elimination,  the 
two  white  boys  being  "  counted  out " 
as  passengers  for  the  first  ride.  They 
seated  themselves  on  the  sleds,  which 
were  "  hitched"  together,  and  the  negro 
boy  got  behind  them  and  started  to  push. 

14  "All  aboard  for  the  fast  express!" 
shouted  "  Billy,"  who  was  on  the  lead- 
ing sled. 


Children's  conversation.  If 
two  of  the  boys  are  dead  and 
another  seriously  hurt,  how  was 
the  reporter  able  to  set  down 
the  conversation  here  printed  ? 
While  this  dialogue  heightens 
interest,  one  suspects  that  it  is 
largely  imaginative.  A  sacri- 
fice of  accuracy  for  novelty. 

More  details  leading  up  to 
the  accident. 


Again  the  question :  How 
did  the  reporter  get  these  facts, 
if  they  are  facts  ? 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES 


15  Out  onto  the  ice  went  the  "express" 
and  then  turned  for  a  trip  around  the 
pond.  In  order  that  the  "  engine " 
might  get  more  "  steam  "  into  the  proc- 
ess he  burrowed  the  top  of  his  head  into 
Joseph's  back  and  pushed  with  might 
and  main.  This  was  highly  effective 
as  far  as  "  steam  "  was  concerned,  but 
not  with  regard  to  the  direction  the 
"  express  "  took. 

"  Look  out !  "  "  Billy  "  suddenly 
shouted.  "  Quick  —  stop  !  We  're  going 
into  the  water !  " 

16  The  negro  boy  dug  his  heels  into  the 
ice,  and  "  Billy  "  attempted  to  swerve 
the  sleds  by  pushing  on  the  ice  with 
his  hands. 

17  It  was  too  late. 

Into  the  open  water  went  boys  and 
sleds,  "  Billy  "  and  Joseph  screaming  in 
fright  and  their  negro  playmate  hold- 
ing on  in  a  vain  effort  to  save  them. 

18  Hearing  their  cries,  South  Park  Po- 
liceman Charles  Fanning  and  John  M. 
O 'Toole,  an  attendant  at  a  "  warming- 
house  "  near  by,  ran  to  the  pond.  They 
jumped  into  the  water,  nearly  six  feet 
deep.  It  was  perhaps  five  minutes  be- 
fore they  succeeded  in  getting  "  Billy  " 
and  the  Russell  boy  out  of  the  water. 

19  Both  boys  were  unconscious.  There- 
fore, not  having  seen  the  boys  before 
they  called  for  help,  the  rescuers  had 
no  means  of  knowing  Joseph  still  was 
in  the  water. 

The  two  playmates  were  rushed  to 
the  hospital.  Artificial  respiration  ma- 
chines were  applied. 


Dramatic  description  of  the 
dash  into  the  water. 


An   effective   pair   of  sen- 
tences. 


Quick  summing  up  of  the 
fataHty  in  four  words.  Notice 
the  paragraphing. 


Time  sequence  carefully 
wrought  out.  The  work  of  res- 
cue detailed.  Interest  height- 
ened by  the  names  of  men  who 
came  to  the  boys'  help. 


Condition  of  the  boys  indi- 
cated. 


24 


TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


"  Billy,"  however,  did  not  recover 
consciousness,  dying  in  a  few  minutes. 

The  negro  boy  was  partially  revived, 
but  it  is  thought  he  may  die  from  shock 
and  exposure. 

After  the  accident  was  reported  po- 
licemen were  sent  to  the  homes  of  the 
two  boys  to  break  the  news. 

Mrs.  George  Depreg,  Joseph's  mother, 
started  out  to  ascertain  more  of  the 
details.  She  was  met  by  an  excited 
neighbor. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Depreg,"  said  the  latter, 
"  I  saw  Joseph  with  the  Jacques  and  the 
Russell  boy  this  afternoon.  Do  you  sup- 
pose he  could  have  been  with  them  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,"  answered  Mrs.  Depreg. 
"  He  left  the  house  this  morning  saying 
he  was  going  to  see  his  grandmother." 

But  at  thought  of  the  possibility  Mrs, 
Depreg  became  excited.  A  search  for 
Joseph  was  without  result,  and  a  tele- 
phone call  to  his  grandmother  brought 
the  information  he  had  not  been  there 
during  the  day. 

Policemen  were  sent  with  grappling 
hooks  to  the  casting  pond.  They  recov- 
ered Joseph's  body.  —  Chicago  Herald 


Summary.  Death  already 
mentioned  in  the  lead.  Not 
repeated  here. 


A  second  tragedy  in  the  late 
discovery  of  the  third  body. 
The  reader's  interest  and  atten- 
tion are  gripped  in  this  para- 
graph, as  well  as  throughout 
the  story.  Strong  appeal  to 
the  feelings.  Short  sentences 
contribute  much  to  the  force 
and  rapidity  of  the  action. 


FOUGHT  AN  ARMED  THIEF 


Unarmed,  John  Werber  frustrated  the 
robbery  of  his  home,  3322  East  Tenth 
street,  last  night,  escaped  a  bullet  in- 
tended for  him  and  captured  the  thief's 
pistol  and  hat.  The  man,  who  the  police 
say  is  responsible  for  a  dozen  house- 
breakings on  the  East  Side,  got  away. 


First  word  sounds  the  key- 
note of  the  story.  News  told  in 
a  few  words.  Entire  sequence 
of  events  rapidly  sketched  in 
opening  paragraph,  even  the 
escape. 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES 


25 


23  Werber  and  his  brother-in-law,  W.  B. 
Duvall,  were  working  in  the  barn  in  the 
rear  of  the  Werber  home  about  8  o'clock. 
No  one  was  in  the  house,  and  the  back 
door  was  open. 

24  Finishing  their  work,  they  entered  the 
house  to  find  three  doors  open  which 
they  had  left  closed  and  a  strange  light 
on  the  second  floor. 

25  "  Then  our  pet  white  cat  came  down 
the  stairway  lickety-split  and  scared  to 
death,  and  I  knew  something  was 
wrong,"  Mr.  Werber  explained. 

26  The  burglar  also  knew  something 
was  wrong.  He  attempted  to  open  a 
window  on  the  second  floor  and,  failing, 
dashed  down  the  back  stairs.  At  the 
back  door  he  found  Duvall,  who  jumped 
through  the  door  and  closed  it  after 
him.  The  thief  ran  through  the  house 
and  out  the  front  door. 

27  Werber  was  waiting  for  him  there  and 
leaped  upon  him.  They  fought  for  pos- 
session of  the  pistol,  rolling  off  the  front 
porch  and  down  the  steps,  the  robber 
firing  once  and  missing.  The  burglar 
landed  on  top,  broke  away  and  dashed 
around  the  house  before  Werber,  who 
now  held  the  gun,  could  fire.  The  man 
also  left  his  hat  behind  him.  It  contained 
three  initials.  The  intruder  had  ran- 
sacked two  drawers  of  a  bureau  with 
the  aid  of  an  oil  lamp  he  had  lighted. 
Nothing  was  missing.  Werber  turned 
the  weapon  and  hat  over  to  the  police, 
after  keeping  one  of  the  four  unex- 
ploded  cartridges  as  a  souvenir. 


Detailed     account    of     the 
encounter   starts. 


Brisk  summary  of  the  result 
of  their  investigations. 


A  touch  of  human  interest 
here.  Variety  achieved  by  a 
bit  of  conversation. 


Spirited  action  secured  by 
swiftly  moving  sentences.  No 
padding  of  unnecessary  details. 


Capital  description  of  a 
fight,  thrilling  with  interest. 
Notice  the  sharp  beat  of  the 
sentences.  Every  one  contrib- 
utes action. 


26 


rVl'iCAL  NEWSPAPER  STURIKS 


28 


29 


30 


'I'lio  man's  description  answers  to  that 
of  a  man  with  whom  Parish  Nickell  and 
P.  E.  Spcllman,  policemen  not  in  uni- 
form, had  a  running  fight  last  Friday 
morning.  Nickell,  Spellman  and  a  squad 
of  uniformed  men  answered  a  call  to 
Independence  and  Park  avenues  at  3 
o'clock  Friday  morning.  Homes  at  2414 
Independence  avenue  and  511  Wabash 
avenue  had  been  robbed. 

The  men  in  uniform  returned  to  head- 
quarters and  the  two  plain  clothes  men 
entered  the  Bonaventure  drug  store.  As 
they  warmed  themselves  by  the  radiator 
a  man  passed  the  store  counting  a  roll 
of  bills.  Before  they  could  get  through 
the  double  front  door  the  man  was  run- 
ning rapidly  down  Park  avenue.  They 
gave  chase  and  at  Eighth  street  and 
Park  avenue  fired  five  shots  at  the 
fleeing  figure. 

The  man  stumbled  and  fell  once,  but 
escaped.  Thinking  they  had  hit  him, 
they  sent  in  a  call  for  help  and  patrolled 
the  district  the  rest  of  the  night.  Evi- 
dently the  man  had  merely  slipped  on 
the  icy  sidewalk.  —  Kansas  City  Star 


Description  and  identifica- 
tion of  the  lobbcr. 


Discovery  of  robber  by 
police.  Policemen  give  chase 
and  open  fire. 


Another  human  interest 
touch  with  an  element  of  sus- 
pense. Abrupt  note  of  the 
man's  final  escape. 


RICHARD  CANFIELD,  FORMER  GAMBLER,  IS  DEAD 


3 1  Richard  A.  Canfield,  the  former  gam- 
bler, whose  houses  of  chance  at  Sara- 
toga and  in  this  city  were  famous  places 
in  their  day,  died  yesterday  afternoon 
at  his  home,  506  Madison  avenue, 
between  Fifty-second  and  Fifty-third 
streets,  from  a  fracture  at  the  base  of 
his  skull  received  on  Thursday  in  a  fall 


Good  introductory  sentence 
telling  the  news  of  Canfield's 
death.  Answers  Who,  What, 
When,  Where,  Why,  and  I  low 
—  an  all-inclusive  lead. 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES 


27 


on  the  stairs  of  the  Fourteenth  street 
subway  station. 

32  Mr.  Canfield  was  almost  as  well 
known  in  art  circles  as  in  gambling  cir- 
cles, for  he  was  a  connoisseur  and  num- 
bered among  his  friends  many  collectors 
and  artists. 

^^  It  is  believed  that  he  died  possessed 
of  a  big  estate,  a  rare  accomplishment 
for  a  man  who  acquired  his  wealth  by 
means  of  running  gambling  games. 

34  Mr.  Canfield  alighted  from  a  north 
bound  subway  train  shortly  before  3 
o'clock  Thursday  afternoon  and  slipped 
as  he  was  walking  up  the  stairs  to  the 
street.  He  fell  forward  and  struck  the 
right  side  of  his  chin  against  a  step.  He 
also  received  what  seemed  to  be  a 
superficial  abrasion  on  the  back  of  his 

35  head.  He  was  stunned  and  was  carried 
in  a  semiconscious  condition  into  the 
starter's  booth.  An  ambulance  was 
summoned  from  Bellevue  Hospital 
and   Dr.  Wagonhals  soon  arrived. 

36  In  the  meantime  Mr.  Canfield  revived 
sufficiently  to  say  that  he  was  "  all  right" 
and  asked  that  Clayton  F.  McKinley  of 
81  Washington  street  be  notified.  Mr. 
McKinley  drove  up  to  the  subway  sta- 
tion in  a  taxicab  twenty  minutes  later. 

Dr.  Wagonhals  examined  the  wounds 
on  Mr.  Canfield's  chin  and  head  and 
advised  him  to  go  to  the  hospital,  but 
the  injured  man  insisted  that  he  wasn't 
a  subject  for  medical  treatment  and 
said  he  was  going  home. 

37  He  walked  up  the  stairs  with  Mr. 
Kinley,  got  into  the  taxicab   and  was 


Name  was  well  known,  even 
notorious.  It  is  therefore  given 
prominent  position  in  the  fore- 
ground of  the  story. 


Entire  story  is  built  on  the 
extraordinary  career  of  the  man 
and  not  merely  on  the  event  of 
his  death. 

Detailed  account  of  the  acci- 
dent begins. 


Note  short,  incisive  senten- 
ces, carrying  action  swiftly  and 
accurately. 


The  man's  words  add  inter- 
est and  realism,  as  in  a  fiction 
story,  and  suggest  the  climax 
of  the  narrative,  his  death. 


Here    is    a    name   bungled. 
Someone  was  careless. 


28 


lAl'lCAL  XKWSPAPER  STORIES 


driven  to  his  house.  As  soon  as  he  got 
home  he  said  that  all  he  needed  after 
his  shaking  up  was  a  rest,  and  went 
to  bed. 

38  Mr.  McKinley  remained  at  the  hou^e 
until  8  o'clock  and  then  went  away,  after 
recommending  that  a  physician  be  called, 
but  Mr.  Canfield  wouldn't  have  one. 

At  8.30  o'clock  Mrs.  Virginia  M. 
Kelly,  the  housekeeper,  went  to  Mr. 
Canfield's  room.  He  told  her  that  she 
need  not  bother  about  him,  as  he  was 
feeling  comfortable.  She  looked  into  his 
bedchamber  at  2  o'clock  yesterday  morn- 
ing and  found  him  apparently  asleep. 

39  When  Mrs.  Kelly  went  to  the  room 
at  8  o'clock  yesterday  morning  to  ask 
what  he  wanted  at  breakfast  she  was 
unable  to  arouse  him.  He  was  uncon- 
scious. She  telephoned  for  the  family 
physician  and  Dr.  J.  Clarence  Sharp  of 
62  West  Forty-sixth  street.  Dr.  Sharp 
found  that  Mr.  Canfield's  condition  was 
serious  and  summoned  Dr.  Foster  Ken- 
nedy of  20  West  Fiftieth  street  and 
Dr.  Isidor  PYeisncr  of  814  Lexington 
avenue.  Mr.  Canfield  died  at  3.15 
without  regaining  consciousness. 

40  Dr.  Sharp  notified  Coroner  Feinberg 
of  his  death,  and  Detective  Van  Cott  of 
the  Second  Detective  Branch  made  an 
investigation.  Through  Mr.  McKinley, 
the  subway  employees  and  the  report 
at  Bellevue  Hospital  the  manner  in 
which  the  ex-gambler  received  his  fatal 
injuries  was  soon  established.  A  death 
certificate  was  issued  and  a  permit  for 
the  funeral  was  granted. 


Note  how  carefully  the  time 
sequence  is  preserved. 


Notice  how  the  fact  of  death 
of  which  the  reader  has  already 
been  told,  and  minor  details 
surrounding  the  death,  are  ad- 
equately covered  in  one  brief 
paragraph. 


Details  with  no  direct  bear- 
ing upon  the  story,  but  inter- 
esting and  necessary. 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES 


29 


41  Along  toward  dusk  many  taxicabs 
and  private  automobiles  stopped  in  front 
of  the  Canfield  house,  where  the  former 
gambler  lived  alone  with  a  large  force 
of  servants.  The  cars  contained  persons 
who  wished  to  know  whether  it  was 
true  that  Mr.  Canfield  was  dead.  The 
housekeeper  refused  to  give  any  infor- 
mation to  newspaper  men  and  assured 
many  of  them  that  Mr.  Canfield  was 
still  alive. 

Arrangements  for  the  funeral  have 
not  been  completed. 

42  Mr.  Canfield,  long  known  as  '"  the 
King  of  the  Gamblers,"  was  not  the 
typical  gambler  in  appearance.  He 
looked  more  like  an  unassuming  well- 
bred  gentleman  of  the  leisure  class.  He 
was  born  fifty-nine  years  ago  and  had 
the  reputation  of  being  a  college  man, 
but  his  schooling  was  principally  ob- 
tained at  the  Boston  Latin  School.  He 
was  particularly  fond  of  mathematics. 
Before  he  became  a  gambler  he  was 
employed  for  a  time  in  the  private  office 
of  the  old  Astor  House  and  then  became 
assistant  manager  of  the  Hotel  Dam, 
formerly  the  Union  Square  Hotel,  an 
uncle  being  a  partner  in  the  business. 

His  chief  claim  to  fame  as  a  gambler 
in  this  city  came  in  connection  with  his 
proprietorship  of  a  luxuriously  fitted 
up  gambling  house  at  5  East  Forty- 
fourth  street,  next  to  Delmonico's.  He 
ran  this  place  for  many  years  without 
any  strenuous  interference,  although  he 
had  his  ups  and  downs,  until  the  ad- 
ministration of  William  Travers  Jerome 


This  might  be  considered 
unessential.  Indirectly  it  brings 
the  reporter  into  the  story  and 
arouses  several  questions  in 
the  reader's  mind  without  in 
any  way  answering  them. 


Story  of  Canfield's  career 
begins.  Might  have  been  made 
into  a  distinct  division  carrying 
a  separate  head. 


TV1'R:AL  NKWsrAI'KR  STORIES 


as  District  Attorney.  Mr.  Jerome  made 
a  spectacular  raid  which  resulted  in  an 
indictment  of  Canfield  and  David  W. 
liucklin,  manager  of  his  gambling  house. 

The  indictment,  returned  on  January 
23,  1903,  charged  Canfield  with  keeping 
a  gambling  room,  with  keeping  a  gam- 
bling room  in  which  there  was  gambling 
paraphernalia,  with  being  a  common 
gambler  and  with  maintaining  a  nuisance 
for  gain. 

Canfield  hired  the  most  expensive 
lawyers  and  the  case  dragged  along  for 
months.  The  evidence  that  led  to  the 
raid  was  obtained  for  Mr.  Jerome  by 
Joseph  Jacobs,  a  Western  detective,  who 
subsequently  admitted  that  he  never 
got  beyond  the  vestibule  of  the  famous 
gambling  den.  He  was  indicted  for 
perjury   and    sent   to   jail. 

43  Finally,  on  December  3,  1904,  Can- 
field  and  Bucklin  appeared  before  Judge 
Cowing  in  the  Court  of  General  Ses- 
sions, pleaded  guilty  of  being  common 
gamblers  and  were  fined  $1000  each. 
Mr.  Jerome  said  he  was  satisfied  that 
Canfield  would  never  again  conduct  a 
gambling  place  in  the  state. 

44  Canfield  sold  his  Forty-fourth  street 
place.  Successive  police  inspectors 
placed  uniformed  officers  at  the  doors 
to  take  notes  of  persons  going  in,  but 
Canfield's  friends  insist  that  he  kept  his 
word  to  go  out  of  business.  There  was 
a  report,  which  many  persons  believed, 
that  a  tunnel  led  into  this  celebrated 
gambling  house,  but  Canfield's  intimates 
alwavs  denied  that  this  was  true. 


"  Den  "  is  a  poorly  chosen 
word.  It  is  not  coordinate  with 
the  luxury  spoken  of  two  para- 
graphs before. 


This  gives  a  romantic  touch 
and  enlivens  fact  details  of 
secondary    importance. 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES 


31 


The  Canfield  gambling  resort  at  Sara- 
toga was  one  of  the  great  attractions 
of  that  summer  resort  for  many  years. 
It  also  had  its  ups  and  downs.  It  has 
been  estimated  that  the  gambler  spent 
$5  5  0,000  in  acquiring  the  property,  which 
occupied  a  block,  and  in  equipping  it 
for  his  purposes.  At  the  upper  end  of 
the  place  was  a  natural  grove  and 
about  the  house  were  Italian  gardens. 

The  house  was  lavishly  fitted  up,  and 
it  is  said  that  its  great  dining  room  was 
the  first  in  this  country  to  have  an  in- 
direct system  of  lighting.  It  was  dis- 
mantled in  the  latter  part  of  1906,  and 
in  1907  "  For  Sale  "  signs  were  put  up. 
It  subsequently  passed  into  other  hands. 

45  Mr.  Canfield  spent  much  of  his  time 
abroad  buying  paintings  and  other  art 
objects,  notably  ceramics  and  antique 
furniture,  principally  Chippendales.  He 
had  an  unusually  large  collection,  and 
those  who  knew  paid  high  tribute  to  his 
discrimination.  He  had  a  collection  of 
Whistlers,  which  he  placed  on  view  at 
M.  Knoedler  &  Co.'s  last  April. 

46  The  last  work  that  Whistler  did 
before  he  died  was  a  portrait  of  Mr. 
Canfield,  which  the  artist  called  "  His 
Reverence."  The  gambler  sat  for  it  the 
greater  part  of  one  winter.  Art  was 
meat  and  drink  to  him,  and  he  was 
never  happier  than  when  discussing 
the  fine  points  of  a  painting  with  collec- 
tors or  with  patrons  who  dropped  in  to 
gamble  at  his  tables. —  New  York  Suti 


This  presents  an  interesting 
contrast :  an  art  connoisseur 
and  a  professional  gambler. 


These  last  paragraphs  might 
be  omitted  without  destroying 
the  essential  facts. 


32  TvricAi.  m:\vsi'a1'F.r  stories 

The  following  story  of  an  Old  Dominion  Steamer,  cut  down  in 
the  fog  and  sent  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea  in  twelve  minutes,  is 
printed  here  without  comment.  It  is  suggested  that  students  read 
it  carefully,  in  line  with  the  laboratory  treatment  discussed  in  the 
earlier  section  of  this  chapter,  and  undertake  its  analysis  paragraph 
by  paragraph.  Newspapers  from  day  to  day  furnish  similar  news 
stories,  which  may  be  studied  intensively  with  profit, 

41  PERISH,  99  LIVE,  AS  LINER  MONROE, 
RAMMED  BY  THE  NANTUCKET,  SINKS 

Norfolk,  Va.,  Jan.  30. —  Forty-five  human  lives  —  nineteen  passen- 
gers on  the  Old  Dominion  line  steamer  Monroe  and  twenty-two  of  her 
crew  —  was  the  toll  claimed  by  the  sea  early  this  morning,  when  the 
Natituiket,  a  smaller  ship  of  the  Merchants  and  Miners'  Transportation 
Company,  reaching  for  Norfolk,  Va.,  from  Boston,  crashed  into  the 
Monroe  in  the  heavy  fog  just  off  Hog  Island,  which  is  sixty  miles  from 
Cape  Charles.  The  Monroe  was  barely  five  hours  out  of  Norfolk  and 
bound  for  New  York. 

Forty  lives  out  of  a  possible  140.  Yet  the  annals  of  such  tragedies 
contain  few  such  stories  of  simple  courage,  few  such  records  of  calm, 
deliberate  action  by  men  and  women,  young  and  old  —  seafaring  men 
and  landsmen  —  in  the  face  of  death. 

To  the  everlasting  credit  of  the  colored  race  be  it  writ  that  every  pas- 
senger who  could  tell  the  tale  of  his  rescue  spoke  with  unstinted  praise 
of  the  cool  braver)'  of  the  stewards  and  stewardesses,  waiters  and  porters, 
and  other  colored  help  that  were  a  feature  of  the  Monroe's  service.  These 
men  and  women  seemed  to  think  first  of  the  passengers,  not  of  them- 
selves, and  they  turned  to  the  rescue  of  the  white  folks  before  they 
thought  of  their  own  kith  and  kin. 

"  Women  and  children  first !  "  was  the  order  of  Capt.  E.  E.  Johnson 
of  the  Monroe  as  he  stood  by  the  sinking  vessel  in  command  of  one  of 
the  three  lifeboats  which  it  was  possible  to  launch.  The  women,  for  the 
most  part  protected  by  life  preservers  which  the  faithful  blacks  had 
helped  them  to  adjust,  were  floadng  about  in  the  still,  icy  waters,  and 
Capt.  Johnson  and  First  Officer  Horsley,  who  commanded  another  boat, 
moved  slowly  around  in  the  mists  of  the  fog,  picking  them  up,  guided 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES  33 

only  by  the  dim  gleam  of  the  searchlight  from  the  Nantucket,  which  had 
backed  away  from  the  sinking  Monroe.  * 

Twelve  minutes  after  the  vessels  had  struck,  the  Monroe  had  turned 
over  and  sunk,  bottom  uppermost.  Last  night  the  wrecking  steamer 
T.  J.  Merritt  was  circling  the  waters  where  the  Monroe  sank,  searching 
for  bodies  that  might  come  to  the  surface. 

It  was  the  first  death-dealing  accident  to  befall  a  vessel  of  the  Old 
Dominion  line  in  almost  fifty  years  of  its  existence,  and  old  sailors 
around  Norfolk  declared  it  the  worst  disaster  in  coastwise  traffic  in  the 
past  half  century. 

The  Nantucket  reached  Norfolk  yesterday  afternoon  with  ninety-nine 
rescued  —  thirty-nine  passengers  and  sixty  crew  and  two  dead  —  dead 
after  they  had  been  brought  aboard  the  Nantucket,  unconscious.  These 
were  Lieut.  Legrand  B.  Curtis  of  the  United  States  Army,  who  was  so 
seriously  injured  in  the  lurching  of  the  sinking  Mojiroe  that  he  had  not 
enough  vitality  left  to  battle  against  the  icy  waters,  even  though  a  life 
preserver  kept  him  afloat ;  and  Mrs.  Thomas  R.  Harrington  of  Norwalk, 
Conn.,  who  succumbed  to  the  shock  and  strain  while  in  the  water.  Her 
husband  had  kept  her  afloat,  swimming  toward  the  rescuing  lifeboats 
with  her  hair  in  his  teeth. 

The  tale  of  the  fate  of  the  Monroe  is  soon  told.  Proceeding  at  half 
speed  through  the  fog  belt,  Capt.  Johnson  kept  his  siren  booming 
every  minute  with  an  automatic  siren  clock.  Twice  he  stopped  his  ship, 
believing  other  vessels  near. 

Suddenly  he  heard  another  siren  on  his  starboard  bow.  He  blew  first 
one,  then  another  shrill  blast.  The  other  vessel  replied  with  two.  Capt. 
Johnson  had  practically  stopped  his  ship,  believing  the  other  would  cross 
his  bows.  Suddenly  he  saw  the  lights  of  the  other  vessel  right  upon  him 
and  tried  to  back  the  Monroe,  but  it  was  too  late.  The  Nantucket,  for 
such  she  was,  came  speeding  on,  and  her  captain,  Barry,  tried,  also  too 
late,  to  reverse  his  engines. 

The  sharp  prow  of  the  smaller  Nantucket  cut  into  the  Montoe  like  a 
knife,  shearing  into  her  plates  just  abaft  the  first  port  on  the  starboard 
side,  or  about  one  third  back  from  the  bow. 

The  nose  of  the  Nantucket  had  torn  clear  through  till  it  reached  the 
midriff  of  the  Momve  before  her  captain  was  able  to  back  away.  A 
moment  later  the  lights  of  the  Nantucket,  which  was  heavily  laden  with 
freight  and  carried  but  two  passengers,  could  just  be  discerned. 


34  IVJ'ICAL  NEVVSPAPER  STORIES 

Hut  Capt.  Johnson  was  not  looking  for  them.  He  had  been  on  the 
bridge,  and  when  the  crasli  came  he  hastened  below  and  hustled  the 
stewards  to  get  the  forty-six  first-class  and  ten  steerage  passengers 
out  of  their  cabins  and  up  on  the  boat  deck. 

Then  Capt.  Johnson  hurried  to  his  lifeboats.  Already  the  Monroe 
was  filling  on  the  starboard  side,  and  listing  heavily.  Second  Officer 
Gately  ran  below  to  ascertain  the  extent  of  the  damage.  He  did  not 
come  up  till  the  ship  went  down,  and  then  he  floated  around  for  hours 
on  a  ladder. 

The  captain  found  that  all  four  boats  on  the  starboard  side  were  use- 
less. Of  those  on  the  port  side,  one  had  been  crushed.  He  and  First 
Officer  Horsley  bestirred  themselves  to  get  the  others  off.  No.  j  was 
launched  with  Horsley  aboard,  and  No.  7  by  Capt.  Johnson,  who  got 
into  it  with  eight  persons,  passengers  and  crew.  Boat  No.  j"  was  launched 
and  immediately  swamped,  sinking  in  a  twinkling. 

Vainly  the  stewards,  by  Capt.  Johnson's  orders,  and  vainly  the  other 
officers  tried  to  persuade  the  passengers  to  go  up  to  the  boat  deck. 
Most  of  them,  huddled  together  in  their  night  clothes,  a  few  having 
seized  blankets,  would  not  leave  the  promenade  deck.  Yet  the  boats 
were  up  above,  and  that  is  why  Horsley  and  Johnson  could  get  only 
eighteen  people  in  their  boats  when  they  launched  them. 

There  was  no  confusion,  no  screaming.  Everything  went  along  in 
peaceful,  almost  orderly  fashion,  the  negroes  helping  the  whites  into  the 
life  preservers,  and  urging  them  to  get  above  to  where  the  boats  were. 

Five  minutes  had  perhaps  passed  when  the  boats  were  launched 
—  then  came  the  first  big  lurch  of  the  Monroe,  and  half  the  passengers 
and  crew  were  thrown  bodily  against  the  bulwarks,  some  of  them 
suffering  injuries  that  led  to  death  later. 

Steadily  the  ship  careened,  till  her  deck  was  almost  vertical  and  her 
port  side  was  facing  the  fog-obscured  sky.  The  men  helped  women 
climb  to  the  top,  where  they  settled  themselves  on  the  upturned  side. 

The  darkness  was  now  complete,  save  for  the  glimmer  of  the  Nan- 
tuckefs  lights.  The  dynamos  of  the  Monroe  had  both  given  out,  and 
not  a  light  was  burning  on  her. 

Slowly  the  ship  began  to  settle,  and  presently  those  who  still  clung  to 
her  side,  many  having  been  washed  off  or  having  slid  into  the  sea  from 
sheer  inability  to  hang  on,  decided  that  unless  they  were  going  down 
with  the  ship  they  had  better  get  out  to  where  the  lifeboats  were  trying 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES  35 

vainly  to  reach  the  vessel  —  afraid  to  come  too  near,  yet  desperately 
anxious  to  reach  those  who  were  in  the  whirl  of  the  waters  about 
the  ship. 

Then  came  the  searchlight  of  the  Nantucket  playing  directly  on  the 
dying  Monroe.  That  light,  almost  blinding  in  its  intensity  when  reflected 
from  the  wet  sides  of  the  ship,  decided  those  who  were  still  clinging. 
They  slid  off,  and  now  the  sea  was  alive  with  drowning  men  and  women. 

Chief  Engineer  Oscar  Perkins  had  tried  in  vain  to  keep  the  lights  of 
the  Monroe  going  for  another  minute  or  two.  He  did  succeed  in  fact  in 
getting  the  second  dynamo  started,  but  the  lights  merely  flickered  and 
went  out.    Perkins  jumped  into  the  sea. 

The  Mo?iroe  turned  till  her  keel  was  almost  uppermost,  and  it  seemed 
to  some  of  those  who  were  rescued  that  they  heard  at  that  last  moment 
shrieks  from  some  that  had  never  got  out  of  their  staterooms.  It  is 
possible,  even  likely,  that  some  of  the  steerage  passengers,  colored  people 
for  the  most  part,  were  thus  caught  in  their  bunks. 

Then  the  Monroe  sank,  but  in  the  oily,  fog-laden  waters  she  went 
down  with  just  a  sough,  hardly  drawing  anything  to  her.  The  water  at 
that  point  is  sixteen  fathoms  deep. 

The  light  of  the  Nantucket  was  playing  around  the  waters  now,  guid- 
ing Capt.  Johnson  and  First  Officer  Horsley  and  also  two  boats  which 
had  been  put  off  from  the  Nantucket  to  where  the  Monroe's  people 
were  feebly  striking  out  for  life. 

Capt.  Johnson  picked  up  thirty-five  persons,  and  loaded  his  boat  till 
there  was  but  an  inch  or  two  of  freeboard  left.  Horsley  picked  up 
twenty-four.  Two  life  rafts  that  had  floated  from  the  Monroe  bore  ten 
more  persons,  and  the  Na?itucket''s  boats  saved  fourteen  more. 

Chief  Wireless  Operator  Kuehn  was  resting  when  the  collision 
occurred,  and  his  assistant,  Ethelridge,  was  at  the  wireless  post.  Kuehn, 
thrown  out  of  his  bunk,  buckled  on  a  life  preserver  and  dashed  to  the 
sloping  deck.  He  began  sending  out  the  SOS  signal  till  he  saw  the 
dynamos  die.  Just  then  a  woman  dashed  past  his  station  screaming 
frantically.  Kuehn,  seeing  it  was  useless  to  try  to  do  anything  more 
than  save  himself,  stopped  the  woman. 

"  Where  is  your  life  preserver .''  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  none.    Oh,  I  am  lost,"  she  replied. 

Kuehn  took  off  his  preserver  and  fastened  it  upon  her.  Then  he  led 
her  to  the  rail  and  helped  her  over  till  she  slid  down  the  sloping  side  into 


36  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

the  sea.  Kuehn  was  never  seen  again.  Doubtless  he  went  down  with 
the  ship,  for  this  woman  was  one  of  the  last  to  get  away. 

Others  went  down  with  the  ship.  The  two  lookouts,  the  two  deck 
watchmen,  the  Quartermaster,  all  stood  at  their  posts  till  it  was  too  late 
to  save  themselves. 

The  officers  of  both  ships  are  being  held  here  tonight  to  await  an 
investigation  which  will  be  begun  tomorrow  by  the  Federal  Steamboat 
Service. 

Opinion  in  Norfolk  tonight  is  almost  unanimous  among  seafaring 
folk  that  if  there  was  any  blame  it  did  not  attach  to  Capt.  Johnson  of 
the  Monroe,  yet  most  are  loath  to  blame  Capt.  Barry  of  the  Natitucket. 
The  rescued  passengers  of  the  Monroe,  however,  are  almost  reckless  in 
their  denunciations  of  the  Nantucket's  captain  and  of  the  Merchants 
and  Miners'  Transportation  Company. 

But  everybody  acknowledges  that  once  the  damage  had  been  done 
Capt.  Barry  and  his  subordinates  did  everything  that  intelligence  and 
braver)'  could  suggest  to  help  the  people  of  the  Monroe.  Had  the  Na7i- 
tucket's  captain  acted  otherwise  than  he  did  the  death  list  of  the  Monroe 
would  undoubtedly  have  been  much  greater,  as  many  of  the  persons 
who  were  dragged  into  the  lifeboats  would  undoubtedly  have  perished 
of  exposure  and  cold. 

The  Nantucket  came  into  port  this  afternoon  badly  injured,  her  bow 
plates  being  crumpled  and  broken  and  the  opening  covered  with  tarpaulins. 

Capt.  Barry,  who  kept  the  wireless  going  for  aid  from  the  moment 
the  collision  occurred,  had  wirelessed  for  clothes  for  fifty  persons.  There 
was  that  and  much  more  awaiting  him  at  the  dock.  Despite  all  that  the 
Nantucket's  crew  had  given  up  to  the  sufferers,  many  of  the  Monroe's 
rescued  were  still  in  their  night  clothes,  a  few  protected  by  blankets,  and 
shivering  with  the  cold  and  the  memory  of  what  they  had  gone  through. 
Thomas  R.  Harrington,  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  stood  by  the  rail  while 
he  saw  his  wife's  body  taken  ashore.  Then  he  fell  unconscious.  He 
had  fainted  when  taken  aboard  the  Nantucket,  having  rescued  his  wife, 
as  he  thought,  but  he  awoke  only  to  learn  that  she  was  dead. 

E.  C.  Lohr,  superintendent  of  the  Merchants  and  Miners'  Company, 
sealed  the  lips  of  the  captain  and  every  officer  of  the  Na7itucket  when 
she  arrived  in  port.  The  World  correspondent  sought  Lohr  and  urged 
him  to  make  a  statement ;  he  refused  point  blank  to  say  anything 
whatever  about  the  wreck. 


FOUR  NEWS  STORIES  Z7 

Capt.  Barry  when  approached  by  the  World  correspondent  begged  to 
be  excused  from  talking  because  his  orders  forbade  him  to  open  his  moulh. 

The  wireless  operator  and  the  lookout  on  the  Nantucket  were  asked 
for  statements,  but  they  replied  that,  while  they  were  willing  to  talk,  their 
orders  forbade  it. 

Capt.  Johnson  of  the  Monroe  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  a 
physician  as  soon  as  he  arrived. 

Steward  Sullivan  of  the  Monroe  told  a  touching  story  of  the  devotion 
to  duty  of  old  Pete  Davis,  the  colored  head  waiter  of  the  sunken  ship. 

Davis,  he  said,  wearing  a  life  preserver,  worked  his  way  carefully  along 
the  upturned  side  of  the  ship  to  where  a  couple  of  middle-aged  women 
were  standing,  hardly  able  to  hold  their  footing  on  the  slippery  side  of 
the  vessel.  One  of  the  women  wore  no  life  preserver.  Davis,  taking  off 
his  own,  patiently  adjusted  it  on  the  woman.    Then  he  came  away. 

Sullivan,  who  had  observed  this,  shouted  to  Pete  to  get  another  pre- 
server.    But  Pete  only  shook  his  head. 

"  Can't  be  done  now,  sir,"  he  answered.  "  But  that  don't  matter ; 
never  mind  me.     I'm  only  looking  after  the  ladies." 

Davis's  body  is  floating  somewhere  in  the  ocean  tonight. 

Ten  thousand  people  lined  the  wharf  when  the  Nantucket  reached 
her  dock  this  afternoon,  but  no  one  was  allowed  aboard,  and  until  the 
Federal  steamboat  inspectors  have  made  their  investigation  no  outsider 
will  be  allowed  to  board  the  vessel.  The  Old  Dominion  officials  took 
care  of  all  the  rescued,  providing  for  them  at  hotels  and  arranging 
to  send  them  to  their  homes  as  soon  as  possible.  But  many  will  be 
physically  unable  to  leave  for  some  time. 

One  of  the  saddest  cases  among  the  rescued  is  that  of  Mrs.  James  R. 
Ray,  whose  husband  was  drowned,  as  was  her  friend  and  companion, 
Mrs.  Dorothy  Bremer,  who  was  traveling  under  the  stage  name  of  Mrs. 
Dolly  Gibson,  a  moving-picture  actress.  Mrs.  Ray,  only  twenty  years 
of  age,  is  penniless  and  friendless,  and  must  w^ait  here  till  friends  in 
New  York  communicate  with  her. 

C.  W.  Poole  of  Gray,  Va.,  who  was  traveling  north  with  his  wife  and 
two-and-a-half-year  old  boy,  for  a  trip  to  Massachusetts,  is  in  great  distress 
of  mind  and  body.  Poole  was  badly  hurt,  but  his  own  pains  are  nothing 
to  the  anguish  that  results  from  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  son,  who  were 
washed  from  his  arms  as  they  clambered  over  the  rails  of  the  sinking 
Monroe.    Mr.  Poole  will  return  to  his  Virginia  home  tomorrow. 


3S  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Mrs.  T.  J.  Woods  of  Norfolk  was  hurr)'ing  to  New  York  to  be  with 
her  husband,  whose  death  was  imminent.  She  was  rescued  with  great 
difficulty,  and  when  borne  ashore  to-day  her  head  was  swathed  in  band- 
ages and  she  was  practically  unconscious.  She  has  not  been  told  that 
her  husband  died  in  New  York  about  the  time  the  Mofiroe  sank. 

The  Nantucket  is  being  unloaded  of  her  cargo,  largely  potatoes, 
tonight,  and  one  would  not  guess  the  part  she  played  in  this  tragedy  of 
the  sea  as  one  watches  the  long  line  of  dusky  stevedores  crawl  in  and 
out  of  her. 

There  is  just  one  touch  for  the  observant.  A  middle-aged  colored 
woman  and  three  children,  ranging  in  ages  from  fifteen  to  five,  are 
standing  on  the  wharf  looking  out  to  Hampton  Roads.  Her  husband, 
a  waiter  on  the  Monroe,  went  down  with  the  ship,  but  she  believes 
he  may  yet  come  back,  and  she  pats  her  children  and  bids  them  be  of 
good  hope,  while  she  chokes  back  the  sobs  that  are  racking  her  body.  — 
Robert  O.  Scallan  in  New  York  World 


IV 

STORIES  BY  WIRE 

The  same  laws  that  guide  the  reporter  in  the  building  of  the 
news  story  are  operative  in  the  structure  of  the  wire  story.  Here 
the  salient  details  are  grouped  in  the  lead  and  details  added  as 
conditions  warrant.  No  longer  are  such  stories  sent  in  skeleton 
form.  Generally  they  are  ordered,  following  a  "  query  "  sent  to 
the  telegraph  editor  by  the  paper's  out-of-town  correspondent. 
When  time  presses  he  must  trust  to  his  own  judgment  and  dis- 
patch a  full  narrative,  without  waiting  for  specific  instructions. 
Much  depends  upon  the  correspondent's  reliability,  initiative, 
news  sense,  and  resourcefulness. 

News,  however,  is  not  a  constant  quality.  It  varies  with  its 
locality.  In  one  town  it  is  of  local  interest  and  therefore  may  run 
into  two  or  three  columns  of  minute  detail.  When  the  same  story 
is  put  upon  the  wire  it  has  a  new  audience,  so  that  many  of  the 
facts  must  needs  be  eliminated. 

A  disastrous  fire  "breaks"  in  Chicago,  let  us  say.  The  entire 
world  wants  to  know  about  it.  Just  what  features  of  the  news  the 
telegraph  wire  shall  carry  is  the  wire  man's  vexatious  problem. 
Chicago  papers  "  play  up  "  the  holocaust,  with  a  complete  list  of  the 
dead  and  injured.  These  names  are  vital  to  Chicago  people  ;  the  en- 
tire city  scans  the  local  papers  for  tidings  of  relatives  and  friends. 
Relatively  few  names  and  details  are  included  in  the  telegraph 
story,  unless  they  be  more  than  sectional  in  their  scope  or  have  a 
peculiar  interest  in  certain  definite  localities  abroad.  Nevertheless, 
this  story  has  a  general  appeal  and  will  find  a  place  on  every  front 
page  in  the  United  States  the  next  morning.  In  spite  of  the  fact 
that  telegraph  news  is  an  expensive  commodity,  column  after 
column  will  be  printed  from  coast  to  coast  as  speedily  as  electricity 
and  presses  can  tell  the  news.    Witness  the  Ljisitania  disaster. 

39 


40  TVriCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

A  president's  message  is  sent  to  Congress.  As  soon  as  the 
release  date  has  expired,  every  daily  paper  in  the  country,  far  and 
near,  prints  the  message  in  detail.  The  people  in  San  Francisco 
are  as  thoroughly  interested  in  what  the  president  has  to  tell  the 
nation  as  are  the  people  of  Washington.  Although  a  press  asso- 
ciation has  sent  this  presidential  document  by  mail  to  its  members 
days  in  advance,  to  save  expensive  tolls,  it  is  nevertheless  consid- 
ered a  wire  story.  It  has  information  that  interests  people  in  dis- 
tant towns  and  cities.  It  contains  a  national  appeal,  a  human-interest 
quality,  that  makes  it  readable  in  every  section  of  the  country. 

It  is  a  convenient  fiction  to  declare  that  the  telegraph  story  is 
baldly  terse,  devoid  of  color  and  vigor,  and  lacking  in  human- 
interest.  In  some  instances  this  is  true  ;  but  semi-occasionally 
a  story  that  thrills  the  continent  comes  ticking  over  the  wire. 

Perhaps  the  best  way  to  illustrate  the  making-over  of  the 
sectional  story,  by  elimination  of  names  and  details  to  suit  the 
news  zone  in  which  it  travels,  may  be  found  in  an  analysis  of 
the  accompanying  story  that  appeared  simultaneously  in  the  larger 
cities  of  America.  The  story  was  local  to  Chicago.  The  Herald 
printed  three  fourths  of  a  column  on  the  front  page  ;  the  Tribune 
printed  a  column  on  the  front  page.  Both  carried  top-heads.  It  was 
live  news,  crammed  with  human-interest  and  local  color.  The 
personnel  of  the  story  included  prominent  Illinois  people. 

When  the  story  was  put  upon  the  wire  by  the  press  associations 
many  details  were  eliminated.  Outside  of  Chicago,  readers  did 
not  care  particularly  about  the  people  involved  ;  but  the  fact  that 
a  university  president  was  unwilling  to  allow  his  son-in-law  to 
remain  on  his  faculty  was  a  fact  that  injected  the  element  of 
romance  and  human-interest  into  the  tale. 

Now  notice  the  treatment  accorded  the  item  by  newspapers  the 
country  over.  The  Nezv  York  Times  printed  five  inches  on  the 
front  page ;  the  Boston  Transcript  four  inches  on  a  page  of 
college  news  ;  the  Springfield  Republican  five  inches  on  an  inside 
page ;  the  Kansas  City  Star  and  San  Francisco  Chronicle  three 
inches  each,  on  inside  pages.  All  these  stories  retained  the  inter- 
view with  the  president,  said  to  be  official  and  therefore  considered 
authentic.    Little  material  change  in  the  arrangement  of  facts  has 


STORIES  BY  WIRE 


41 


been  made  by  individual  copy  readers.  The  structure  of  the  story 
is  essentially  the  same  as  when  it  came  from  the  Chicago  office  of 
the  press  association.  The  handling  of  the  heads  of  the  story  is  a 
striking  example  of  how  all  the  telegraph  editors  seized  upon  the 
"  Won  a  Wife  ;  Lost  a  Job  "  idea.  No  doubt  it  was  this  feature  that 
carried  the  story  far  out  of  its  local  field.    The  exhibits  follow : 


(A) 


LEAVES  FACULTY 
TO  WIN  A  BRIDE 


Prof.  Frazer  May  Keep  Post 

or    Become    Soii-in-Law, 

but  Not  Both,  Says 

"Prexy"  James. 


PREFERS     HIS     DAUGHTER 


Comptroller  at  University  of  Illinois 

Resigns  When  President  Assails 

Employment  of  Kin. 


Professor  George  Enfield  Frazer,  comp- 
troller of  the  University  of  Illinois,  wanted 
to  marry  the  daughter  of  President  Ed- 
mund J.  James. 

He  asked  President  James'  consent  to 
the  engagement.  President  James  assured 
him  he  valued  him  as  a  member  of  the 
faculty  and  would  welcome  him  as  a  son- 
in-law. 

But  he  told  him  that  he  could  not  be 
both. 

Professor  Frazer  promised  to  resign 
his  post,  and  the  president  announced  the 


42 


TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


engagement  of  his  daughter,  Miss  Helen 
Dickson  James,  and  Professor  Frazer. 

Yesterday  he  announced  Professor  Fra- 
zer's  resignation  had  been  presented  to 
the  trustees.  He  also  announced  that  no 
son-in-law  nor  other  relative  could  serve 
on  the  same  faculty  with  him. 

In  an  official  statement  explaining  the 
resignation  President  James  said  : 

"  Boards  of  trustees  and  public  school 
boards  in  general  should  be  prohibited  by 
law  from  appointing  to  positions  within 
their  gift  any  person  connected  by  blood  or 
marriage  to  the  fourth  degree  with  any  mem- 
ber of  the  teaching  or  administrative  staff. 

"  Nepotism,  or  the  favoring  of  one's  own 
relatives  in  the  appointment  to  or  retention 
in  or  promotion  to  public  offices  at  one's 
disposal,  is  in  its  quality  a  more  subtle 
and  more  corrupting  influence  than  either 
politics  or  religion  directed  to  the  same 
end,  bad  as  these  are. 

"  No  man  is  a  fair  judge  of  the  abilides 
or  services  of  his  own  children  or  other 
relatives.  He  is  very  liable  to  overvalue 
them,  or  in  his  attempt  to  be  just  he  may 
lean  over  backward  in  his  attempt  to  stand 
upright  and  so  do  them  an  injustice. 

"  The  Vetterwirthschaf  t  (system  of  cous- 
inage in  appointments),  believed  by  many 
to  be  widespread  in  German  universities, 
is  certainly  one  of  the  cancerous  growths 
on  that  otherwise  admirable  system. 

"  Professor  Frazer  is  a  most  competent 
man  in  a  responsible  and  important  posi- 
tion in  the  administration  of  university 
affairs,  but  his  new  relation  to  the  presi- 
dent of  the  university  makes  his  retention 
impossible  if  the  largest  interests  of  the 
university  are  to  be  served." 

In  addition  to  being  comptroller  of  the 
university  Professor  Frazer  has  held  the 
chair  of  public  accounting.  —  Chicago 
Herald 


STORIES  BY  WIRE 


43 


(B) 


"WEDDING  TO  COST  HIM  HIS  JOB 

Controller    of    University    of    Illinois    Will 
Marry  President's  Daughter. 

George  Enfield  Frazer,  controller  of  the 
University  of  Illinois  and  professor  of  pub- 
lic accounting,  has  lost  his  job  through 
winning  as  his  wife  Miss  Helen  James, 
daughter  of  Edmund  Janes  James,  presi- 
dent of  the  University.  The  engagement 
of  Miss  James  and  Prof.  Frazer  was  an- 
nounced at  Chicago  a  few  days  ago.  Yes- 
terday President  James  said  that  the 
resignation  of  his  future  son-in-law  had 
been  accepted,  because  no  relative  could 
serve  on  the  same  faculty  with  himself. 

"  It  is  my  decided  opinion,"  said  Presi- 
dent James,  "  based  on  long  experience 
as  high  school  principal,  college  professor 
and  university  president,  that  boards  of 
trustees  and  public  school  boards  in  gen- 
eral should  be  prohibited  by  law  from  ap- 
pointing to  positions  within  their  gift  any 
person  connected  by  blood  or  marriage  to 
the  fourth  degree  with  any  member  of  the 
teaching  or  administrative  staff. 

"  In  my  judgment,  the  appointment  and 
promotion  of  relatives  of  influential  persons 
on  the  staff  to  positions  in  the  university 
is  one  of  the  serious  defects  of  American 
college  and  university  administration.  Nep- 
otism is  in  its  quality  a  more  subtle  and 
more  corrupting  influence  than  either  poli- 
tics or  religion  directed  to  the  same  end, 
bad  as  these  are.  The  vetterwirthschaft 
(system  of  cousinage  in  appointments),  be- 
lieved by  many  to  be  widespread  in  German 
universities,  is  certainly  one  of  the  cancer- 
ous growths  of  that  otherwise  admirable 
system."  —  Springfield  Republican 


44 


rVl'ICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


(C) 


WINS  WIFE  BUT  LOSES  JOB 

TliouKh  Marryiii;;  rresiUeiit  James's  Daugh- 
ter, Professor  Frazer  Must  Leave  Univer- 
sity uf  Illinois  I'aeulty 

Chicago,  Jan.  4.  —  George  Enfield 
Frazer,  controller  of  the  University  of  Illi- 
nois and  professor  of  public  accounting, 
has  lost  his  job  through  winning  as  his 
wife  Miss  Helen  James,  daughter  of  Ed- 
mund Janes  James,  president  of  the  uni- 
versity. The  engagement  of  Miss  James 
and  Professor  Frazer  was  announced  a  few 
days  ago.  President  James  said  yesterday 
that  the  resignation  of  his  future  son-in-law 
had  been  accepted,  because  no  relative  could 
serve  on  the  same  faculty  with  himself. 

"It  is  my  decided  opinion,"  said  Presi- 
dent James,  "  based  on  long  experience  as 
high  school  principal,  college  professor  and 
university  president,  that  boards  of  trustees 
and  public  school  boards  in  general  should 
be  prohibited  by  law  from  appointing  to 
positions  within  their  gift  any  persons  con- 
nected by  blood  or  marriage  to  the  fourth 
degree  with  any  member  of  the  teaching 
or  administrative  staff.  In  my  judgment, 
the  appointment  and  promotion  of  relatives 
of  influential  persons  on  the  staff  to  posi- 
tions in  the  university  is  one  of  the  serious 
defects  of  American  college  and  university 
administration. 

"  Nepotism  is  in  its  quality  a  more  subtle 
and  more  corrupting  influence  than  either 
politics  or  religion  directed  to  the  same  end. 
bad  as  these  are.  The  vetterivitihschaft 
(system  of  cousinage  in  appointments),  be- 
lieved by  many  to  be  widespread  in  German 
universities,  is  certainly  one  of  the  cancer- 
ous growths  on  that  otherwise  admirable 
system."  —  Boston  Transcript 


STORIES   BY  WIRE 


45 


(D) 


WINS  WIFE,  LOSES  JOB 

BY  FATHER-IN-LAW 


President    James    Doesn't   Want 

Relatives  on  Illinois  Faculty, 

So  Prof.  Frazer  Must  Go. 


Chicago,  Jan.  3.  —  George  Enfield 
Frazer,  Controller  of  the  University  of  Illi- 
nois and  Professor  of  Public  Accounting, 
has  lost  his  job  through  winning  as  his  wife 
Miss  Helen  James,  daughter  of  Edmund 
Janes  James,  President  of  the  University. 
The  engagement  of  Miss  James  and  Pro- 
fessor Frazer  was  announced  a  few  days 
ago.  Today  President  James  said  the  resig- 
nation of  his  future  son-in-law  had  been 
accepted,  because  no  relative  could  serve 
on  the  same  faculty  with  himself. 

"  It  is  my  decided  opinion,"  said  Presi- 
dent James,  "  based  on  long  experience  as 
High  School  Principal,  College  Professor 
and  University  President,  that  Boards  of 
Trustees  and  Public  School  Boards  in  gen 
eral  should  be  prohibited  by  law  from  ap- 
pointing to  positions  within  their  gift  any 
person  connected  by  blood  or  marriage  to 
the  fourth  degree  with  any  member  of  the 
teaching  or  administrative  staff. 

"  In  my  judgment,  the  appointment  and 
promotion  of  relatives  of  influential  persons 
on  the  staff  to  positions  in  the  university  is 
one  of  the  serious  defects  of  American  col- 
lege and  university  administration.  Nepo- 
tism is  in  its  quality  a  more  subde  and  more 
corrupting  influence  than  either  politics  or 
religion  directed  to  the  same  end,  bad  as 
these  are. 

"  The  Vetterivirthschaft  (system  of  cous- 
inage in  appointments),  believed  by  many 


46 


TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


(E) 


to  be  widespread  in  German  universities, 
is  certainly  one  of  tiie  cancerous  growths 
on  that  otherwise  admirable  system."  — 
New  York  Tif/ies 


WINS  COLLEGE 
HEAD'S  DAUGHTER, 

LOSES  HIS  JOB 


George    Frazer,    Controller   of   Uni- 
versity of  Illinois,  to  Be  Son- 
in-Law  of  President  James, 
but  Must  Resign  Position. 


Chicago,  January  3. —  George  Enfield 
Frazer,  controller  of  the  University  of  Illi- 
nois, and  professor  of  public  accounting, 
has  lost  his  job  through  his  engagement  to 
Miss  Helen  James,  daughter  of  Edmund 
James,  president  of  the  university. 

The  engagement  of  Miss  James  and 
Professor  Frazer  was  announced  a  few 
days  ago.  Today  President  James  an- 
nounced that  the  resignation  of  his  future 
son-in-law  had  been  accepted. 

"  It  is  my  opinion,"  said  President 
James,  "  that  boards  of  trustees  and  public 
school  boards  in  general  should  be  pro- 
hibited by  law  from  appointing  to  positions 
within  their  gift  any  person  connected  by 
blood  or  marriage  to  the  fourth  degree  with 
any  member  of  the  teaching  or  administra- 
tive staff."  — Sa7i  jFrancisco  Chronicle 


(F) 


STORIES  BY  WIRE 
WON  A   WIFE;    LOST  A  JOB 


47 


A  Professor's  Father-in-L,aw  Says  He  Can't 
£mploy  Hiui, 

Chicago,  Jan.  3.  —  George  Enfield  Fra- 
zer,  comptroller  of  the  University  of  Illi- 
nois and  professor  of  public  accounting 
there,  has  lost  his  job  through  winning  as 
his  wife  Miss  Helen  James,  daughter  of 
Edmund  James,  president  of  the  university. 
The  engagement  of  Miss  James  and  Pro- 
fessor Frazer  was  announced  a  few  days  ago. 
Today  President  James  announced  the  res- 
ignation of  his  future  son-in-law  had  been 
accepted  and  coupled  with  the  announce- 
ment was  the  statement  that  no  son-in-law 
could  serve  on  the  same  faculty  with  himself. 

"  No  man  is  a  fair  judge  of  the  abilities 
or  services  of  his  own  children  or  other 
relatives,"  said  Mr.  James.  "  He  is  very 
liable  to  overvalue  them,  or,  in  his  attempt 
to  be  just,  he  may  lean  over  backward."  — 
Kansas  City  Star 


The  following  stories  are  offered  as  admirable  specimens  of  the 
telegraph  dispatch  : 


ICE  BRIDGE  DISASTER  AT  THE  FALLS 

Niagara  Falls,  Feb.  4.  —  Without  warning,  the  ice  bridge  that  has 
choked  the  river  channel  between  the  cataract  and  the  upper  steel-arch 
bridge  for  the  last  three  weeks  broke  from  its  shoring  just  at  noon  today 
and  went  down  the  river,  taking  with  it  to  their  death  an  unidentified 
man  and  woman,  thought  to  be  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Eldridge  Stanton  of 
No.  247  Huron  street,  Toronto,  and  Burrell  Heacock,  seventeen  years 
old,  of  East  117th  street,  Cleveland,  O.  There  were  four  other  persons 
on  the  ice  at  the  time,  but  they  managed  to  get  ashore  in  safety,  though 
after  thrilling  adventures. 

The  bridge  was  considered  perfectly  safe.  For  weeks  the  great  fields 
of  ice  had  been  coming  down  the  river,  piling  up  in  the  narrow  channel 


48  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

until  the  field  was  from  60  to  80  feet  thick.  Under  the  influence  of  zero 
weather,  the  great  mass  had  become  firmly  anchored  to  the  shore.  The 
jam  was  about  1000  feet  in  length  and  in  some  places  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  in  breadth.  For  two  weeks  it  had  offered  safe  passage  for  the 
hardy,  and  today  an  immense  crowd  of  excursionists  came  to  view  the 
winter  wonder  of  the  river. 

Had  the  accident  occurred  an  hour  later  in  the  day,  hundreds  would 
have  lost  their  lives.  For  the  crowd  was  at  the  time  moving  down  into 
Prospect  Park  to  the  elevators  that  run  down  the  cliff. 

Somewhere  in  the  great  Whirlpool  there  now  is  the  body  of  a  gallant 
gentleman,  the  unidentified  man,  who  twice  put  aside  chances  of  rescue 
to  remain  with  the  terror-stricken  wonian,  and  who  in  the  shadow  of 
death  —  just  at  the  break  of  the  rapids  —  spurned  assistance  for  himself 
and  attempted  to  bind  about  the  woman's  body  a  rope  dangling  from  the 
lower  steel-arch  bridge.  And  the  lad,  Burrell  Heacock,  was  cast  in  the 
same  mold.  For  had  he  not  turned  back  to  give  assistance  to  the 
man,  he,  too,  might  have  made  the  shore  safely. 

On  the  bridge  at  the  time  it  tore  free  from  the  shore,  besides  these 
three,  were  Monroe  Gilbert  of  No.  1108  Grove  avenue,  this  city; 
Ignatius  Roth  of  No.  21 14  Fulton  road,  Cleveland,  Heacock's  com- 
panion ;  William  Hill  and  William  Lablond,  rivermen,  who  had  shacks 
on  the  ice,  and  an  unidentified  Italian.  Hill's  shack  was  nearest  to  the 
American  shore.  When  he  heard  the  grinding  and  crashing  of  the  ice, 
he  ran  at  top  speed  toward  the  Canadian  shore,  calling  to  the  others  to 
follow  him.  And  Lablond  gave  the  others  warning  that  safety  lay  in 
that  direction.  Gilbert  and  the  Italian  followed,  but  the  others  became 
confused.  And  by  the  time  they  had  regained  their  composure,  the 
bridge  was  moving  fast  down  the  river. 

The  man  and  the  woman  started  first  toward  the  American  shore,  but 
they  were  stopped  by  a  lane  of  open  water.  They  turned  about  and 
made  for  the  Canadian  side,  and  when  they  were  hardly  more  than  50 
yards  from  the  rocky  shore,  the  woman  fell  on  her  face,  utterly  spent. 

"  I  can't  go  on  !    I  can't  go  on  !  "  she  moaned.    "  Let  us  die  here." 

And  all  the  while  the  great  field  of  ice,  driven  onward  by  a  southwest 
gale  and  pressed  by  a  jam  that  had  broken  free  from  its  anchorage  near 
the  base  of  the  Horseshoe  fall,  went  on,  plowing  through  the  terrible 
outrush  of  the  Niagara  Falls  Power  Company's  tunnel  outflow,  mightiest 
current  in  all  the  river,  without  being  broken.    As  the  woman  fell  the 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  49 

man  strove  to  get  her  to  her  feet  again  and  tried  to  drag  her  along  the 
ice,  calling  to  Roth  and  Heacock,  who  were  nearest  to  him,  for  assistance. 
Heacock  turned  back  to  the  couple  and  helped  support  the  woman.  The 
act  cost  him  his  life. 

Roth  struggled  along  over  the  hummocks  of  ice,  getting  close  to  the 
open  stretch  of  water  at  the  Canadian  end  of  the  field.  There  were  men 
on  the  shore  ready  to  give  him  assistance  —  Lablond,  Hill,  William  Cook 
and  Superintendent  Harry  King  of  the  Ontario  Power  company.  They 
were  stationed  at  the  bottom  of  the  cliff,  just  at  the  foot  of  Eastwood 
street,  Niagara  Falls,  Ont.  Roth  was  afraid  to  trust  himself  in  the  icy 
waters.  Lablond  jumped  out  to  the  field  of  ice  with  a  rope  and  half 
carried,  half  dragged  the  boy  ashore. 

An  effort  was  then  made  to  get  to  the  stricken  three.  But  at  a  point 
about  600  feet  below  the  upper  steel-arch  bridge  the  ice  field  broke  into 
two  great  fields,  one  section  going  toward  the  American  shore  and 
anchoring  on  a  great  rock  near  the  Hydraulic  power-house,  and  there 
it  is  tonight,  with  Hill's  shack  jutting  up  on  the  tilted  mound.  Had  the 
three  been  on  that  field  they  would  have  been  saved. 

The  moving  floe  passed  slowly  down  the  river.  Meantime,  the  fire 
headquarters  truck  had  been  called  out  and  a  general  alarm  of  fire  on  the 
Canadian  side  called  out  the  men  there.  The  men  took  station  with  ropes 
along  the  shore,  but  the  floe  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  their  ropes. 
Other  firemen  were  sent  to  the  lower  steel-arch  bridge,  and  there  took  sta- 
tion with  a  rope.  The  Canadian  firemen  had  two  ropes  down  from  the  can- 
tilever bridge,  which  is  about  300  yards  upstream  from  the  other  structure. 

Just  above  the  old  Maid  of  the  Mist  landing,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from 
the  Whirlpool  rapids,  the  floe  on  which  the  three  were  borne  broke  into 
two  sections,  the  man  and  the  woman  on  one,  Heacock  on  the  other. 
Once  the  floe  on  which  the  man  and  the  woman  rode  was  borne  close 
to  the  Canadian  side,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the  man  might  have  made  the 
shore.  But  he  would  not  make  the  attempt.  The  woman  was  crouched 
at  his  feet,  weeping  and  praying. 

Heacock  waved  his  hand  to  his  companions  in  distress  as  his  floe 
moved  clear  of  the  other  and,  caught  in  a  current  giving  to  the  rapids, 
raced  down  the  river.  The  other  floe  then  shot  towards  the  American 
shore  and  was  caught  in  an  eddy  and  whirled  there  for  about  five  min- 
utes. This  within  sight  of  the  tumbling  waters  that  marked  the  beginning 
of  the  rapids  —  and  death. 


so  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Directly  in  his  course  there  dangled  one  rope,  and  a  second  was  moved 
toward  him.  He  caught  that  held  by  Officer  Pat  Kelly  of  the  Ontario 
police  force  and  a  company  of  about  20  husky  railroad  men  —  caught  it 
and  jumped  free  of  the  ice.  But  the  sag  of  the  rope  at  that  great  drop, 
200  feet,  let  him  into  the  chilly  water  up  to  his  waist.  And  before  he 
was  clear  of  the  stream  he  was  battered  by  three  successive  floes  of 
jutting  ice,  and  was,  perhaps,  badly  injured. 

Not  content  with  the  efforts  of  the  men  above  to  draw  him  up,  he 
tried  to  assist  himself  hand-over-hand.  The  time  was  i.io  o'clock,  and 
the  hour  or  more  that  the  boy  had  been  on  the  ice  and  the  effects  of  the 
icy  ducking  had  sapped  his  strength.  He  stopped  trj'ing  to  pull  himself 
up  and  hung  limp  on  the  rope,  which  spun  him  around  like  a  top.  Kelly 
and  his  men  worked  fiercely.  Ten  feet,  twenty,  twenty-five,  thirty  feet 
—  up  he  came.  The  great  crowd  on  the  bridges  cheered  —  those  that 
were  not  weeping.  Could  the  boy  last  ?  Grimly  he  hung  on,  trying 
always  to  get  the  rope  w^ound  about  his  leg. 

Then  his  hands  were  seen  to  slip.  He  tried  to  get  hold  of  the  rope 
with  his  teeth,  but  could  not.  Men  and  women  shouted  words  of  cheer 
to  him,  words  he  probably  could  not  hear.  His  strength  was  going  fast. 
Finally  just  as  he  was  about  60  feet  clear  of  the  water,  his  head  fell  back. 
He  was  utterly  spent.  He  lost  his  grip,  wildly  grabbed  again,  then 
tumbled  down  into  the  river  —  into  the  very  midst  of  the  terrible  rapids. 

But  Heacock  was  made  of  gallant  stuff.  He  plunged  far  down  into 
the  stream,  and  when  he  came  up,  his  face  turned  towards  the  great 
wave,  he  feebly  moved  his  arms  in  the  breast  stroke.  But  the  mighty 
rush  of  water  was  too  much  for  him.  He  was  caught  like  a  cork  and  was 
sent  racing  on  into  the  midst  of  the  seething  waters.  For  perhaps  a 
half  minute  he  was  in  view.  Then  he  was  no  more  seen ;  he  was  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  spume. 

And  all  this  happened  before  the  eyes  of  the  man  and  the  woman 
crouched  at  his  feet.  The  woman  dared  not  look.  The  man  appeared  calm. 
He  took  off  his  overcoat,  and  dragged  off  the  woman's  coat.  She  wore  a 
white  sweater.  The  man  prepared  to  make  his  play  against  death.  Once 
in  the  eddy  the  floe  on  which  they  rode  tilted  and  let  them  into  the  water, 
but  it  righted  itself  just  as  it  seemed  they  would  be  tumbled  off,  and 
caught  by  a  down-river  current,  it  moved  in  the  course  Heacock  had  gone. 

Heacock  saw  the  dangling  ropes  and  made  ready  to  catch  one.  "Very 
coolly  he  took  off  his  overcoat,  and  poised  himself  on  the  tossing  fioe. 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  51 

The  man  was  alert  for  the  ropes.  As  the  floe  swung  under  the  can- 
tilever bridge  the  man  grasped  a  rope,  and  tried  to  put  it  about  the 
woman's  waist.  The  force  of  the  current  was  too  much  for  the  rope.  It 
parted,  and  the  man  waved  the  torn  end  toward  the  crowd. 

There  was  still  another  chance  —  the  rope  that  was  dropped  from  the 
lower  steel-arch  bridge  by  the  Niagara  avenue  firemen.  As  the  floe  went 
into  Swift  Drift  the  man  caught  it,  and  hung  grimly  on.  He  was  given 
slack,  and  he  tried  to  wind  the  rope  about  the  woman's  waist.  He  fum- 
bled in  his  agony  of  effort  as  if  his  hands  were  numb.  The  rush  of  the 
ice  in  the  stream  was  too  much  for  him.  When  he  could  not  tie  the 
rope  about  the  woman,  he  let  it  go. 

There  was  no  thought  of  himself  in  the  shadow  of  death.  He  raised 
the  poor  woman  to  her  feet,  kissed  her,  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 

This  was  in  the  beginning  of  the  rapids.  The  woman  made  as  if  to 
cross  herself,  then  lay  down  on  the  ice.  The  man  lay  down  beside  her, 
his  arms  clasped  close  about  her. 

So  they  went  to  their  death.  The  floe  served  them  well,  holding  intact 
until  it  struck  the  great  wave.  There  it  was  shivered  ;  there  the  gallant 
man  and  the  woman  at  his  side  disappeared  from  view. 

Various  theories  are  offered  in  explanation  of  the  ice  bridge  breaking 
free.  Old  rivermen  who  have  seen  scores  of  ice  bridges  come  and  go 
say  that  it  was  the  press  of  a  free  floe  above  that  did  the  work.  This 
field  formed  two  days  ago  on  the  rocks  near  the  base  of  the  Horseshoe 
fall  and  grew  rapidly  in  extent  under  the  feed  of  ice  from  the  upper 
reaches  of  the  river.  This  morning  it  was  about  three  acres  in  extent. 
With  the  dawn  there  came  a  great  wind  from  the  southwest,  straight 
down  the  river.  That  with  the  press  of  the  cakes  coming  over  the  fall 
loosened  the  field,  causing  it  to  shift. 

Then  just  at  noon  the  field  was  freed.  And  on  it  came,  bearing  down 
on  the  ice  bridge  at  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  Harry  Willams  and  James 
Coan  of  Niagara  Falls,  Ont.,  saw  it  free  itself,  and  saw  it  race  down- 
stream. With  three  or  four  other  friends  they  set  up  a  cry  to  the  seven 
on  the  bridge.  But  the  warning  was  too  late.  The  field,  jutting  30  feet 
out  of  the  water,  struck  the  bridge  toward  the  Canadian  side.  Then  the 
bridge  began  to  move,  slowly  at  first,  then  faster  than  a  man  could  walk. 

As  it  tore  itself  free  of  the  shore,  the  din  of  its  tearing  was  like  a 
salvo  of  artillery.  And  so  strong  was  it  that  it  plowed  through  the  tun- 
nel rush  without  wavering  or  losing  form.    A  clear  channel  of  water  was 


52  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

left  behind,  the  side  cut  as  clean  as  if  by  a  plow  point.  For  500  yarda 
it  moved  before  it  was  broken. 

Ignatius  Roth,  who  was  rescued,  was  so  badly  spent  when  he  was 
brought  ashore  that  he  could  tell  nothing  of  the  others  on  the  ice.  He 
was  taken  to  the  Hotel  Lafayette  on  the  Canada  side,  and  there,  after 
he  had  regained  his  composure,  he  told  his  story.  Burrell  Heacock,  his 
companion,  was  an  only  son.  He  was  employed  by  the  Lake  Shore.  The 
two  had  left  Cleveland  last  night,  and  as  soon  as  they  arrived  here  went 
down  to  the  ice  bridge.  They  had  made  crossing  to  the  Canada  side,  and 
were  on  their  way  back  to  the  American  shore  w'hen  the  bridge  went  out. 

The  identity  of  the  man  and  the  woman  has  not  yet  been  definitely 
fixed ;  but  it  is  thought  they  were  M^.  and  Mrs.  Eldridge  Stanton  of 
No.  247  Huron  street,  Toronto,  Ont.  They  are  described  as  about  35 
years  old.  They  arrived  here  yesterday,  and  took  rooms  in  the  Allen 
block  in  Falls  street.  They  left  there  this  morning  at  1 1  o'clock,  saying 
they  were  going  down  to  the  ice  bridge  and  would  be  back  for  dinner. 
They  had  not  returned  tonight  and,  from  the  general  description  that 
was  given  of  them,  A.  N.  Allen,  from  whom  they  had  their  rooms,  thinks 
there  is  no  doubt  they  were  his  guests. 

There  w^ere  also  missing  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Parker  of  Syracuse,  and  a 
Germantown  (Pa.)  railroad  man,  and  his  wife.  But  they  were  found 
late  tonight. 

The  bodies  lost  will  never  be  recovered.  They  are  now  in  the  great 
Whirlpool,  which  is  partly  covered  with  ice  and  in  the  center  of  which 
there  are  thousands  of  grinding  cakes  of  ice.  The  bodies  will  be  broken 
and  ground  to  bits.  —  W.  R.  Meldrum,  Associated  Press  Correspondent, 
in  Buffalo  Express 

Editor's  Note.  This  unusual  news  story  of  the  death  of  three  people  on 
an  ice  field  below  Niagara  Falls  is  a  graphic  piece  of  newspaper  reporting.  It 
is  told  with  simple  directness  and  with  the  elimination  of  superfluous  detail 
and  florid  description. 

In  the  introductory  paragraph  the  reporter  has  bottled  up  the  essence  of 
the  tale  and  has  then  proceeded  with  bold  convincing  strokes  to  paint  the 
tragic  picture  of  the  disaster.  The  story  itself  is  crammed  with  facts,  names, 
incidents,  bits  of  pathos,  dramatic  situations,  that  raise  it  at  times  to  the  level 
of  literature.    It  holds  its  interest  to  the  last  sentence. 

The  author  of  this  remarkable  news  story  is  W.  R.  Meldrum,  Falls  corre- 
spondent of  the  Btiffalo  E.rp?-ess,  as  well  as  of  the  Associated  Press.  In  com- 
menting upon  the  conditions  under  which  the  story  was  written  he  remarks : 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  53 

"  I  remember  that  I  was  pretty  well  overwhelmed  by  the  emotional  immen- 
sity of  the  story,  though  I  was  by  no  means  a  novice  at  the  time.  I  was  sum- 
moned from  bed  by  one  of  our  men  on  the  Journal,  though  the  hour  was 
noon.  So  I  had  to  make  a  quick  getaway.  I  realized  that  if  a  really  '  big ' 
story  was  to  develop,  it  would  come  at  the  lower  Niagara  bridges,  where  the 
river  breaks  from  the  calm  reaches  to  the  terrible  rapids. 

"  The  bridges  became  my  objective.  Over  the  upper  bridge,  I  went  for  the 
Canadian  side,  and  there  made  a  sleigh,  bearing  ropes  for  the  relief  of  the  three 
unhappy  people  on  the  ice.  And  opposite  the  Hydraulic  Power  Company  I  had 
the  first  view  of  the  unfortunates,  though  they  were  then  well  down  towards  what 
we  know  as  Swift  Drift.  I  reached  the  cantilever  bridge  just  as  young  Heacock 
was  making  his  play  for  life  on  the  ropes.  I  knew  I  had  seen  a  great  story,  a 
heartbreaking  tale.    And  then  came  the  pitiful  death  of  Stanton  and  his  wife. 

"After  that  it  was  just  plug,  piecing  together  the  details  of  how  the  bridge 
had  broken,  of  the  rescue  of  Ignatius  Roth  of  Cleveland,  his  story  as  he  lay  in 
bed  at  the  Hotel  Lafayette,  Niagara  Falls,  Ont.,  the  recitals  of  the  men  who  had 
attempted  rescue  of  the  Stantons  and  Heacock.  I  had  all  in  hand  in  less  than 
three  hours'  time.  In  the  last  analysis,  I  made  the  story  by  downright  hard 
work  on  an  empty  stomach.    Perhaps  a  litde  Scotch  sentiment  made  it  ring  true. 

"  The  lead  was  the  bothering  thing,  —  how  to  get  into  a  few  sentences  some- 
thing of  the  gripping  sorrow  of  the  tale.  Once  I  had  the  lead,  —  and  it  came 
only  after  I  had  cast  aside  a  half  dozen  adjectival  horrors  —  the  rest  was  com- 
paratively easy.  I  fell  naturally  —  for  the  sorrow  of  it  —  into  simple  recital. 
Not  that  I  thought  I  was  doing  well.  Far  from  it.  I  felt  when  I  turned  in  the 
story  that  I  had  made  a  sorry  mess  of  it,  —  a  mess  of  the  greatest  story  that  I 
or  any  other  reporter  on  the  Express  had  ever  seen.  Any  other  reporter  would 
have  done  as  well,  writing  as  I  did,  not  from  the  head  but  from  the  heart." 


SULZER,  DEPOSED  GOVERNOR,  QUITS  ALBANY  IN  SILENCE 

Albany,  N.Y.,  Oct.  21.  —  William  Sulzer  tonight  departed  from 
Albany  in  silence.  Not  a  friend  outside  his  ofificial  family  accompanied 
him  to  the  railroad  station.  Not  a  cheer  greeted  him  as,  with  his  hat 
drawn  over  his  eyes  and  his  chin  buried  in  his  overcoat  collar,  he  Vv^alked 
slowly  down  the  platform  and  boarded  his  car  —  by  coincidence  the 
"Empire  State." 

"  I  have  no  regrets,"  were  his  last  words.  "  If  I  had  ever}'thing  to 
do  over  again,  I  would  do  just  as  I  have  done.   My  fight  has  just  begun." 

The  former  Governor  planned  upon  reaching  New  York  to  go  directly 
to  a  hotel  in  Eighth  avenue.  When  he  heard  that  a  demonstration  had 
been  planned  for  him  on  his  arrival,  he  expressed  displeasure. 


54  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  I  hope  I  may  enter  the  eity  in  silence,"  he  said. 

Half  a  dozen  of  his  advisers  will  follow  him  to  New  York  tomorrow 
to  aid  him  in  starting  his  fight  for  the  assembly.  Among  them  will 
be  J.  W.  Forrest,  Henry  L.  Kessler  of  Albany  and  Chester  C.  Piatt, 
formerly  private  secretary  to  Governor  Sulzer. 

Final  plans  for  the  campaign  were  drawn  up  tonight  at  the  last  meal 
the  former  Governor  ate  in  the  executive  mansion.  Among  his  guests 
was  James  C.  Garrison,  who,  due  to  his  criticism  of  some  of  the  anti- 
Sulzer  assemblymen,  brought  himself  into  alleged  contempt  of  the  assem- 
bly and  had  spent  the  last  month  in  the  Albany  county  penitentiary.  He 
was  released  today  by  Judge  Cochrane  at  Hudson  into  the  custody  of 
his  counsel  until  next  Friday.  Garrison  plans  to  participate  in  Sulzer's 
campaign  if  he  is  not  remanded  to  prison. 

Shortly  after  6.30  o'clock  tonight  a  big  automobile,  which  is  used 
by  the  state  highway  department,  rolled  up  to  the  front  of  the  execu- 
tive mansion,  and  the  former  Governor,  his  wife,  Mr.  Piatt  and  his 
wife,  and  Nathan  B.  Chadscy,  a  member  of  Sulzer's  "  kitchen  cabinet," 
walked  out  and  entered  the  waiting  machine.  They  hurried  away  to 
the  station. 

Emil  Kovarik,  the  former  Governor's  bodyguard,  had  preceded  the 
party  with  the  household's  pet  dogs,  "  Patsy  "  and  "  Carlie."  Mrs.  Sul- 
zer jumped  out  of  the  machine  as  soon  as  it  stopped,  ran  up  into  the 
train  shed  and  began  to  fondle  "  Carlie."  A  curious  crowd  gathered 
in  a  circle  about  her  and  watched  her  silently.  Between  times  Kovarik 
drew  food  from  Mrs.  Sulzer's  purse  and  fed  it  to  the  dogs. 

A  traveling  man,  carrying  two  heavy  suit  cases,  rushed  up  the  stair- 
way and  through  the  crowd,  without  noticing  that  Mrs.  Sulzer  was  the 
center  of  attraction.  Unfortunately  for  the  salesman,  he  stepped  on  one 
of  "  Patsy's  "  toes. 

A  fierce  growl  followed,  and  the  dog  leaped  at  the  man.  Kovarik 
dragged  the  dog  back,  and  the  salesman  fled.  Mrs.  Sulzer  laughed  heartily 
and  inquired  of  the  dog  if  he  were  injured. 

"  I'm  going  back  to  New  York,"  she  said,  smiling,  "  and  I  cannot 
say  that  I  am  sorry.  Of  course  I  should  like  to  go  back  to  our  old  home 
in  Second  avenue,  but  it  is  sold,  so  I  shall  be  content  in  a  hotel." 

Asked  about  a  mmor  that  she  would  speak  from  the  same  platform 
with  her  husband  during  the  campaign,  she  said  she  had  no  such  plan, 
but  was  willing  to  do  it. 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  55 

"  If  I  am  asked  to  speak,  you  bet  I  will,"  she  declared.  "  I  could 
tell  some  things  that  would  be  interesting.." 

Meantime  Sulzer  sat  alone  in  the  rear  seat  of  the  automobile,  which 
had  drawn  up  alongside  the  station  among  a  score  of  horse  cabs. 

Sulzer  buried  himself  in  his  overcoat  and  robes.  Only  a  few  cab 
drivers  and  newsboys  recognized  him.  They  stood  in  the  shadow,  at  a 
respectful  distance  and  gazed  silently  at  him.    He  did  not  notice  them. 

A  few  minutes  before  train  time  —  7  o'clock  —  he  slipped  quietly 
out  of  the  car  and  walked  to  the  train  shed,  where  he  joined  Mrs.  Sulzer. 
Only  a  few  persons  recognized  him.  He  stood  near  her  and  Kovarik 
several  minutes  before  any  of  the  crowd  realized  it  was  he.  Then  the 
throng  was  augmented  by  travelers  and  railroad  employees.  Still  there  was 
no  demonstration,  and  he  gave  none  of  the  crowd  a  sign  of  recognition. 
Rain  was  falling  by  this  time,  and  the  air  was  cold.  He  drew  his  coat 
tightly  about  his  body  and  gazed  over  the  heads  of  the  people  into  the  night. 

At  length  he  stepped  over  to  several  newspaper  men  he  knew  and 
smilingly  said  :  "  Well,  boys,  is  there  anything  doing  tonight }  " 

"  No,"  someone  replied. 

"  I  guess  it  is  rather  quiet  now,"  he  remarked. 

It  then  was  noticed  that  he  wore  his  campaign  hat  which  was  stolen 
last  Saturday  night  at  the  executive  mansion  when  he  was  presented 
with  a  loving  cup  by  admirers.  Mention  of  the  return  of  the  hat  caused 
him  to  smile  broadly. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  was  glad  to  get  it  back.  Mrs.  Sulzer  located  it. 
I  don't  know  who  had  it." 

"  Is  there  a  last  word  you  want  to  say,  Governor  ? "  he  was  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  say,  I  have  told  about 
all  I  have  to  tell  in  my  various  statements.  However,  I  have  no  regrets. 
If  I  had  everything  to  do  over  again,  I  would  do  just  as  I  have  done. 
My  fight  has  just  begun." 

The  train  was  delayed,  and  a  long  silence  ensued.  Eventually  two 
friends  came  along  and  shook  hands  with  the  former  executive.  They 
were  the  first  who  had  approached  him  voluntarily.  By  this  time  word 
had  gotten  over  the  station  that  Sulzer  was  on  the  platform,  and  several 
hundred  persons  had  collected.  He  faced  them,  but  said  nothing.  Nor 
did  they  do  aught  but  simply  look  at  him. 

The  train  came  in,  and  Mr.  Sulzer  and  his  wife,  who  carried  "  Carlie," 
walked  down  the  platform,  Kovarik,  leading  "  Patsy,"  and  Mr.  Piatt 


56  TVriCAL  NEWSPArKR  STORIES 

and  his  wife  and  Chadscy  by  their  sides.  Henry  Burgard,  of  Buffalo,  a 
widely  known  politician,  stepped  off  the  train,  and  Mr.  Sulzer  stopped 
to  shake  hands  with  him. 

""  Fine  work,  keep  it  up,"   Sulzer  said,  and  then  passed  on. 

The  crowd  had  overtaken  Sulzer  and  stopped  near  the  platform  of 
the  first  Pullman  coach.  He  and  Mrs.  Sulzer,  thinking  that  it  was  their 
car,  hurried  in  and  took  a  drawling  room.  But  it  was  the  wrong  room, 
and  they  were  forced  to  return  to  the  platform  and  wait  until  another 
coach  had  been  coupled  on.  A  brakeman  in  greasy  overalls  and  jacket 
coupled  the  car,  and  Sulzer  stopped  to  shake  his  hand. 

News  that  the  Sulzers  were  on  the  train  spread  quickly  and  a  curious 
throng  of  passengers  streamed  back  through  the  coaches  to  see  him. 
The  narrow  hall  outside  his  drawing  room  was  jammed  and  a  few 
passengers  climbed  on  seats  to  look  over  the  heads  of  others. 

Sulzer  did  not  appear  to  notice  them.  The  wheels  of  the  train  began 
to  grind,  "  Carlie  "  barked,  the  compartment  door  was  closed,  and  the 
former  Governor  was  lost  to  view.  As  silently  as  it  came  the  crowd 
wended  its  way  back  into  the  station  and  out  into  the  rain.  —  Labert  St. 
Clair,  Correspondent  Associated  Press,  Albany,  N.Y. 

Editor's  Note.  This  remarkable  story  of  William  Sulzer,  the  deposed 
governor,  and  of  his  departure  from  Albany,  was  written  in  short  "  takes"  fed 
into  a  telegraph  wire,  and  cleared  within  thirty  minutes.  The  writer  is  Labert 
St.  Clair,  correspondent  of  the  Associated  Press,  Albany,  New  York,  a  man  of 
wide  training  in  the  writing  of  news  concerned  with  politics  and  politicians. 
The  story  suggests  a  cold,  drizzling  day  with  a  leaden  sky  and  no  rift  through 
which  the  sun  may  break.    It  is  a  capital  example  of  good  impressionistic  writing. 

The  wife,  Mrs.  Sulzer,  affects  cheerfulness  by  playing  with  the  dog,  thus 
seeking  to  divert  her  husband.  But  it  is  a  hollow  ruse.  The  interest  in  the 
story  is  enhanced  by  the  prominence  of  the  man,  his  spectacular  impeachment 
and  trial,  resuldng  in  his  removal  from  executive  office. 

Particular  attention  is  directed  to  the  epigrammatic  structure  of  tlie  lead  and 
the  striking  of  the  keynote  in  the  introductory  sentences.  The  keen  observa- 
tion of  the  reporter,  the  insertion  of  conversation  and  the  intimately  personal 
traits  of  the  man,  are  sketched  with  a  sure  hand.  That  the  story  was  well  in 
mind  is  evidenced  by  the  short  space  of  time  required  to  group  the  material  for  a 
waiting  wire.  The  story  is  just  as  readable  in  New  York  as  at  the  Golden  Gate. 


STORIES  BV  WIRE  ^^ 

INAUGURATION  OF  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  CUBA 

Habana,  May  20,  1902.  —  The  United  States  has  redeemed  her 
promise  to  the  world.  Habana  and  Santiago  de  Cuba  today  were  evacuated 
by  American  troops,  the  reins  of  power  were  handed  over  to  President 
Palma,  and  now  the  Government  of  Cuba  is  free,  and  tonight  the  whole 
island  is  delirious  with  joy. 

Dramatic  as  was  the  remarkable  demonstration  when  the  flag  of  the 
United  States  was  lowered  and  the  flag  of  the  new  Republic  hoisted  in 
its  place  at  noon  today  on  the  palace  from  whence  Spain  had  ruled  the 
island  for  centuries,  it  was  hardly  more  stirring  than  the  magnificent 
friendly  demonstration  which  attended  the  departure  of  the  cruiser 
Brooklyn  as  she  sailed  out  of  Habana  Harbor  a  few  minutes  before 
4  o'clock  this  afternoon. 

A  flotilla  of  harbor  craft  loaded  to  the  guards  with  people  and  dressed 
with  bunting  from  stem  to  stern  escorted  her  to  sea.  The  water  front 
was  a  solid  mass  of  people,  and  the  old  fortifications  at  La  Punta,  which, 
with  Morro  Castle  opposite,  guard  the  entrance  to  the  narrow  neck  of 
the  harbor,  was  a  human  hillock.  The  Brooklyn  had  waited  until  the 
Ward  Line  steamer  Morro  Castle  and  the  tug  Eagle  had  sailed  before 
weighing  anchor.  As  became  a  commander.  Gen.  Leonard  Wood  desired 
to  be  the  last  to  leave.  'Ph "  Brooklyn's  anchorage  was  near  the  wreck 
of  the  battleship  Maine,  whose  black,  shrunken  skeleton  was  decorated 
today  with  American  and  Cuban  flags  by  order  of  the  city  council. 

When  the  beautiful  cruiser  steamed  slowly  by  this  pitiful  memory,  the 
American  ensign  at  her  taffrail  was  dipped  and  the  sailors  generally  doffed 
their  caps.  As  she  passed  the  grim  walls  of  Cabanas  and  Morro  Castle 
the  Brooklyn  moved  swiftly,  the  American  flag  at  her  fore  and  the  Cuban 
flag  at  her  main  peak,  sailors  manning  her  sides,  and  the  flag  at  her  stern 
dipping  continually  to  the  storm  of  vivas  from  ashore  and  afloat.  The 
Cuban  colors  on  both  the  fortresses  were  lowered  three  times  in  salute, 
although  it  is  not  military  etiquette  for  a  fort  to  salute  except  with  guns. 
But  an  army  four  hours  old  is  not  expected  to  know  this.  General  Wood 
stood  on  the  bridge  of  the  cruiser  and  acknowledged  the  ovation  he 
received  by  bowing  and  touching  his  cap. 

The  flotilla  of  small  craft  kept  on  in  the  wake  of  the  Brooklyn  until 
she  was  hull  down  on  the  horizon,  then  the  boats  turned  back  and  the 
people  at  the  entrance  of  the  harbor  returned  to  their  jubilations. 


58  TVPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

The  enthusiasm  in  the  city  was  boundless.  Many  persons  were  liter- 
ally mad  with  joy  over  their  new-born  liberty.  The  streets  were  full  of 
surging,  cheering  men  and  women.   Motley  processions  paraded  the  plaza. 

l'"irecrackers  of  the  giant  variety  were  exploded  on  the  sidewalks  and 
even  in  the  cafes.  It  was  like  a  combination  of  an  old-fashioned  American 
Eourth  of  July  and  a  national  convention. 

One  hundred  thousand  visitors  were  said  to  be  in  the  city,  and  the 
police  were  utterly  unable  to  cope  with  the  joy-intoxicated  people. 

But  President  Palma  and  his  cabinet  did  not  give  way  to  rejoicing. 
There  was  stern  business  ahead  for  them,  and  they  went  early  to  work. 
As  soon  as  the  new  Government  was  installed.  Congress  met  and  pro- 
claimed the  constitution  and  appendix.  President  Palma  reviewed  14,000 
school  children  before  the  palace,  and  at  4  o'clock  he  went  to  the  cathe- 
dral, where  a  Te  Deum  was  sung  for  the  new  republic.  It  was  an  im- 
posing ceremony.  President  Palma  then  devoted  an  hour  before  dinner 
to  attending  to  some  urgent  matters,  among  which  was  the  postal  rela- 
tions with  the  United  States. 

By  his  direction  Washington  was  informed  that  Cuba  would  like  to 
continue  the  present  arrangement  temporarily. 

This  evening  the  city  is  illuminated  as  never  before,  and  a  great 
pyrotechnic  display  is  being  given  on  the  walls  of  Morro  Castle  and 
Cabanas  across  the  bay. 

The  natal  day  of  the  new  republic  found  Habana  arrayed  like  a  queen 
to  await  the  coming  of  her  lord.  She  seemed  reinvested  for  the  occasion 
with  the  dignity  of  the  prosperous  days  of  her  power  and  wealth.  The 
decorations  were  universal.  In  some  cases  men  had  worked  all  night  by 
the  light  of  torches  to  complete  elaborate  designs.  There  was  not  a  resi- 
dence, pretentious  or  humble,  that  did  not  bear  upon  its  quaint  facade 
some  emblem  in  honor  of  the  event.  The  many  arches  erected  at  the 
entrances  of  plazas  by  political  societies,  fraternal  clubs,  residences  of 
various  civil  divisions  of  the  city,  and  business  organizations  had  an  air 
of  real  grandeur. 

The  scaffolding  was  covered  with  canvas  painted  in  imitation  of  marble, 
and  from  a  distance  the  illusion  was  complete.  Bunting  spread  on  Vene- 
tian masts  canopied  the  deep,  narrow  streets  from  the  rays  of  the  sun. 
Beneath  these  canopies  the  Cuban  colors  and  palms  graced  the  open 
doorways,  through  which  glimpses  could  be  caught  of  luxuriant  gardens 
in  cool  inner  courts.  Many  of  the  balconies  jutting  from  the  white-v/alled 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  59 

buildings  were  adorned  with  roses.  Nature  seemed  in  harmony  with  the 
spirit  of  the  festivities.  The  parks  were  literally  aflame  with  tropical 
flowers,  and  the  vaulted  sky  above  might  have  been  chiseled  out  of 
turquoise.  Above  every  red-tiled  roof  rose  a  Cuban  flag.  The  whole 
city  seemed  suddenly  buried  beneath   a  forest  of  waving  banners. 

The  decorations  along  the  water  front  were  exceedingly  lavish,  and  all 
the  shipping  in  the  harbor  was  dressed  in  gala  attire.  The  majority  of 
the  ships  flew  the  American  ensign  at  the  main  and  the  Cuban  colors 
at  the  fore  or  mizzen.  The  United  States  armored  cruiser  Brooklyn^ 
which  was  to  take  General  Wood  away,  and  the  steamer  Aforro  Castle, 
of  the  Ward  Line,  on  which  the  troops  were  to  embark,  as  well  as  the 
foreign  warships  which  had  been  sent  by  their  governments  to  be  present 
at  the  birth  of  the  new  republic,  were  dressed  with  streams  of  signal 
flags,  fore  and  aft,  man-of-war  fashion.  The  American  colors,  which  were 
to  be  hauled  down  in  a  few  hours,  still  floated  above  the  grim  walls  of 
the  fortresses  which  guard  the  entrance  of  the  harbor.  Not  another  bit 
of  color  showed  upon  them. 

The  early  morning  was  cool  and  delightful,  and  the  entire  population, 
reenforced  by  thousands  of  visitors,  was  abroad  soon  after  daylight.  All 
was  animation  and  expectancy.  The  streets  were  swarming  with  people 
and  were  filled  with  a  ceaseless  din.  The  babble  of  voices  was  drowned 
by  the  sharp  cries  of  drivers  and  the  clamor  of  warning  bells.  As  the 
coachmen  drove  their  carriages  madly  over  the  stony  pavements  pedes- 
trians had  a  busy  time  keeping  out  of  the  way  of  the  wheels.  There  are 
4000  public  carriages  in  Habana,  and  this  morning  each  one  of  them 
seemed  racing  somewhere  on  a  life  or  death  mission. 

Much  curiosity  was  aroused  by  a  statue  of  freedom  which  had  been 
raised  during  the  night  in  Central  Park  upon  the  pedestal  where  for  cen- 
turies a  statue  of  Queen  Isabella  had  stood.  During  the  morning  a 
bountiful  breakfast  was  given  to  several  thousand  poor  children  by  Mr. 
Payne,  of  Boston,  who  has  passed  the  winter  in  Habana  for  many  years. 

As  the  day  advanced  the  heat  of  the  sun  became  intense  and  the 
weather  grew  hotter  every  minute.  Hot  air  from  the  hot  streets  quivered 
in  the  hot  sky,  until  the  whole  landscape  wavered. 

The  actual  transfer  of  the  control  of  the  island  was  scheduled  to  occur 
exactly  at  noon,  Habana  time,  which  is  12.30  p.m.,  Washington  time, 
but  those  invited  to  witness  the  ceremony  were  requested  to  be  at  the 
palace  at  1 1.30  a.m.   They  included,  besides  the  American  officers  and  the 


6o  TYPICAL  NEWSPArKR  STORIES 

members  of  President-elect  Palma's  cabinet,  the  members  of  congress, 
the  supreme  court  judges,  the  governors  of  the  provinces,  the  officers 
of  the  visiting  warships,  the  foreign  consuls,  William  Jennings  Bryan,  the 
other  visiting  American  statesmen,  several  of  Senor  Palma's  Central 
Valley  (New  York)  neighbors ;  Horatio  Rubens,  counsel  for  the  former 
Cuban  junta ;  Col.  William  Astor  Chanler,  and  a  few  other  specially 
invited  guests. 

The  palace  is  an  imposing  yellow  stone  structure,  the  upper  stories  of 
its  front  being  built  over  a  stone  colonnade,  giving  it  a  fine  architectural 
effect.  For  centuries  it  was  the  residence  of  the  captains-general  of 
Spain.  Since  the  American  occupation  it  has  been  the  official  head- 
quarters of  the  military  governor.  It  fronts  an  exquisite  park,  the  Plaza 
de  Armas,  with  its  stately  royal  palms  and  species  of  banyan  trees, 
called  "  laurels  of  India."  In  the  center  is  a  fine  marble  statue  of 
Ferdinand  VII.  Through  the  center  of  the  building  an  archway  leads, 
as  in  all  Spanish  palaces,  to  the  patio  or  court,  where  a  statue  of 
Columbus  rises  from  a  mass  of  palms  and  flowering  plants. 

On  either  side  of  the  entrance  marble  stairways  ascend  to  the  audience 
room,  which  opens  through  balconied  windows  upon  the  plaza.  In  this 
chamber  the  actual  transfer  occurred.  It  is  an  imposing  room,  oblong, 
with  a  lofty  ceiling  and  marble  floor.  It  formed  a  fine  setting  for  the 
historic  occasion.  The  chamber  today  is  exactly  as  it  was  when  the 
Spaniards  departed,  except  that  the  portraits  of  the  captains-general,  which 
hung  upon  its  walls,  are  gone.  They  were  taken  back  to  Spain,  but  coats 
of  arms  of  Spain,  with  their  royal  quarterings,  still  hang  above  the 
windows,  which  are  screened  by  the  same  scarlet  curtains  that  were 
hanging  during  the  Spanish  regime.  The  decorations,  white  and  gold, 
with  the  superb  mirrors,  have  also  been  preserved,  just  as  they  were 
left  by  the  Spaniards.  The  chair,  with  a  gold  crown  above  its  back, 
which  was  reserved  for  the  Spanish  monarch  himself,  was  visible  in  an 
adjoining  apartment. 

Owing  to  the  limited  space  the  people  were  to  have  no  sight  of  the 
ceremony  to  be  enacted  here,  which  was  to  constitute  them  a  nation  before 
the  world,  but  outside  they  were  to  witness  a  spectacle  which  would  stir 
their  pulses,  for  they  were  to  see  the  beloved  five-barred  and  single-starred 
flag,  which  Ce'spedes  first  threw  to  the  breeze  in  1868,  at  the  opening 
of  the  ten  years'  war,  raised  by  the  act  of  the  United  States  above  the 
palace.  This  thing  which  was  to  happen  had  been  the  dream  of  their  lives, 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  6 1 

and  of  their  ancestors  for  generations.  Their  parents,  brothers,  and 
friends  had  gone  to  their  deaths  to  accomplish  it.  No  strange  wonder, 
then,  that  hours  before  the  time  set  they  began  flocking  here  from  all 
quarters  of  the  city.  Many  were  already  before  the  palace  with  the  rising 
sun,  and  some  even  slept  in  the  park  to  be  certain  not  to  miss  this  sight. 

A  portion  of  the  plaza  was  kept  clear  by  the  police  very  early.  The 
remainder  was  packed  with  people  so  thick  that  the  ground  seemed  alive. 

Soon  all  the  side  streets  running  into  the  plaza  were  choked  into  a 
solid  mass  of  humanity,  and  every  door  and  window  fronting  the  square 
was  walled  in  with  faces,  white  and  black,  old  and  young,  male  and 
female.  Then  crowds  sought  the  roofs,  overflowing  every  building  that 
commanded  a  view  of  the  flagstaff  on  the  palace.  As  far  as  the  eye 
could  see  the  roof  of  the  lines  were  fringed  with  human  freight.  It  was 
a  sight  to  live  forever  in  memory. 

The  first  demonstration  occurred  at  about  1 1  o'clock,  when  eight  dis- 
mounted troops  of  the  Seventh  Cavalry,  under  the  command  of  Colonel 
Baldwin,  marched  into  the  plaza,  preceded  by  the  regimental  band.  The 
cavalrymen  were  arrayed  in  khaki  uniforms  and  carried  carbines.  They 
formed  in  three  sides  of  an  oblong  square,  facing  the  palace,  their  center 
resting  on  the  statue  of  King  Ferdinand.  The  greeting  the  American 
soldiers  received  was  cordial,  but  real  enthusiasm  was  first  manifested 
upon  the  appearance  of  two  batteries  of  native  artillery,  who,  coming  up 
at  double-quick  time,  wheeled  into  line  and  grounded  arms  in  the  street 
directly  below  the  balconies  of  the  palace.  The  maneuver  was  executed 
smartly,  and  the  crowd  cheered  with  pride. 

Shortly  after  the  guests  began  to  arrive,  and  a  state  occasion  of  a 
first-class  European  power  could  not  have  commanded  more  ceremony. 
Ofiicers  of  the  Army  and  the  Navy  of  the  United  States,  officers  of 
Italian  and  English  warships  in  the  harbor,  as  well  as  foreign  consuls, 
were  arrayed  in  all  the  splendor  of  their  full  uniforms.  The  British  consul- 
general,  Lionel  Edward  Gresley  Carden,  who  has  been  appointed  minister 
to  Cuba,  wore  the  embroidered  diplomatic  uniform  of  his  new  rank.  The 
Chinese  consuls  came  in  flowing  silks,  the  judges  in  their  ermine,  and 
the  archbishop  of  Habana  in  the  purple  robes  of  his  high  ecclesiastical 
office.  Gen.  Maximo  Gomez,  the  idol  of  the  Cuban  people,  with  his 
hawklike  head  and  shoulders  erect  in  spite  of  his  78  years,  came  attended 
by  some  of  his  old  companions  in  arms.  The  President-elect,  attired 
simply  in  a  black  suit  with  frock  coat,  with  Jeffersonian  simplicity,  walked 


62  TVriCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

over  from  the  Senate  chamber  at  the  head  of  the  members  of  Congress. 
There  was  an  air  of  distinction  in  Scnor  Palma's  carriage,  notwithstanding 
his  slight  figure. 

General  Wood  entered  the  chamber  after  all  were  assembled.  Greet- 
ings were  exchanged  informally,  and  the  best  of  good  feeling  was  dis- 
played. I'"or  twenty  minutes  the  gathering  waited,  during  which  time 
photographers  made  several  flash-light  pictures,  and  the  click  of  camera 
shutters  sounded  like  the  popping  of  small  arms. 

The  transfer  occurred  exactly  at  noon.  The  ceremony  was  brief  and 
simple.  General  Wood  and  Senor  Palma  faced  each  other.  General 
Gomez  stood  immediately  behind  his  future  President  in  an  open  space 
around  which  clustered  the  other  witnesses  of  the  birth  of  the  republic. 
Mr.  Bryan  was  in  the  front  row  of  spectators.  In  a  low  but  clear  voice 
General  Wood  read  his  letter  from  the  President  and  proclamations 
turning  over  the  island  to  the  Cuban  Government. 

The  formal  transfer  was  now  over,  but  President  Palma  added  a 
few  words  in  English,  expressive  of  his  deep  sense  of  gratitude  to  the 
American  Government  and  of  his  personal  thanks  to  General  Wood,  to 
which  the  latter  responded  in  a  most  cordial  spirit.  Then  came  the  con- 
gratulations. Everybody  crowded  about  the  new  President  to  shake  his 
hand  and  wish  him  success.  General  Gomez  embraced  him,  according 
to  the  Spanish  custom.  There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  many  persons 
present,  and  many  of  the  Cubans  hugged  each  other  for  very  joy. 

In  the  meantime  a  scene  was  enacted  outside  the  palace  to  stir  the 
pulses  and  live  forever  in  the  memory  of  those  who  witnessed  it.  For 
one  hour  before  noon  a  hundred  thousand  people  had  stood  with  eyes 
glued  on  the  American  flag  floating  over  the  palace. 

As  the  time  approached  for  the  flag  to  be  lowered  several  premature 
demonstrations  occurred  — bells  rang,  steam  sirens  in  the  harbor  shrieked, 
and  rockets  and  aerial  bombs  exploded.  But  these  were  mere  whispers 
compared  with  the  volume  of  sound  which  burst  forth  when  the  American 
flag  came  down  at  lo  minutes  past  12.  Lieutenant  McCoy,  of  General 
Wood's  staff,  was  on  the  roof  of  the  palace  and  two  troopers  of  the 
Seventh  Cavalry  were  in  charge  of  the  halyards,  which  hung  down  to  the 
balcony  in  front  of  the  palace  —  it  having  been  General  Wood's  original 
intention  personally  to  hoist  the  Cuban  flag  in  the  name  of  the  United 
States.    W^hen  the  signal  was  given  that  the  ceremony  inside  was  over. 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  63 

the  halyards  were  loosed  and  the  American  colors  floated  slowly  down. 
The  American  cavalry  below  saluted,  and  the  cavalry  band  played  "  The 
Star  Spangled  Banner."  A  roar  which  rolled  over  the  entire  city  went 
up  from  the  populace,  and  like  an  echo  came  the  distant  boom  of  one 
of  the  great  guns  at  the  Cabanas  fortress  across  the  bay,  the  first  of 
45  such  detonations — one  for  every  state  in  the  Union. 

The  American  flag  had  been  lowered  at  Cabanas  and  from  Morro  and 
the  other  forts  around  the  city  simultaneously  with  the  one  over  the 
palace.  Then  all  the  bells  in  the  city  added  to  the  din.  Giant  firecrackers 
were  exploded  until  a  pall  of  smoke  arose  over  the  city.  All  this  was 
kept  up  for  five  minutes,  until  the  Cuban  flag  was  hoisted.  As  it  blew 
free  over  the  palace  and  rose  on  the  forts  to  the  view  of  the  assembled 
thousands,  the  roar  was  redoubled  again.  The  guns  of  Cabanas  spoke 
this  time  with  the  national  salute  of  2 1  guns.  The  United  States  cruiser 
Brookly?i  and  the  English  and  Italian  warships  in  the  harbor  set  the  flag 
of  the  new  Republic  at  the  main  and  also  saluted  it  with  2 1  guns.  The 
Cuban  bands,  stationed  on  the  plaza  at  Malacon,  Morro,  and  in  other 
places  in  the  city,  blared  forth  in  pride  of  their  country,  while  the  guns 
of  the  ships  thundered  the  strength  of  war. 

But  it  was  the  demonstration  of  the  people  that  overshadowed  all  the 
rest.  Their  vivas  were  like  the  roar  of  the  ocean.  They  rose  and  fell. 
Women  waved  handkerchiefs,  fans,  and  parasols.  Men  jumped  up  and 
down  for  joy,  and  everybody  embraced  his  neighbor.  Tears  flowed  from 
many  eyes,  but  the  shouting  did  not  cease.  The  crowds  shouted  vivas 
for  the  United  States,  for  President  Palrria,  for  General  Gomez,  and  for 
General  Wood,  and  it  was  ten  minutes  before  the  storm  of  sound  began 
to  subside,  and  there  was  another  wild  roar  as  General  Wood  and  the 
American  officers  left  the  palace  for  the  pier. 

In  the  meantime  the  troops  of  cavalry  in  the  plaza  had  quietly  marched 
to  the  wharf  and  embarked  on  the  W^ard  Line  steamer  Morro  Castle. 
General  Wood  and  his  aids  were  escorted  to  the  pier  by  President  Palma, 
the  entire  cabinet,  the  Cuban  Congress,  and  the  consular  corps.  They 
also  were  accompanied  by  the  best  Cuban  band  in  Habana.  The  demon- 
stration they  received  all  along  the  route  was  remarkable,  and  left  no 
doubt  of  the  gratitude  and  the  good  will  of  the  Cubans  toward  the 
Americans.  General  Wood  and  the  other  officers  then  entered  the 
steam  launch  and  were  taken  across  the  shining  waters  of  the  bay  to 
the  Brooklyn. 


64  TYPICAL  NKWsrAl'KR  STORIES 

As  General  Wood  climbed  up  the  side  of  the  cruiser  and  set  foot 
on  her  deck  the  marine  guard  on  board  was  paraded,  and  the  former 
governor-general  of  the  island  was  given  a  salute  of  twenty-one  guns. 

During  the  early  morning  many  troops  of  school  children  marched 
into  the  Plaza  de  Armas,  ranged  themselves  before  the  palace,  and  sang 
an  American  anthem. 

At  I  o  o'clock  a  delegation  from  the  Central  Veterans  Club  presented 
General  Wood  with  a  handsome  machete  having  a  beautifully  engraved 
hilt.  It  has  the  Cuban  coat  of  arms  and  a  single  gold  star  on  one  side, 
and  the  General's  initials  on  the  other  in  gold. 

President  Loubet,  of  France,  has  sent  the  following  cablegram  to 
President  Palma  : 

At  the  moment  when  your  excellency  takes  official  possession  of  your  high 
duties  I  send  my  sincere  congratulations,  and  I  pray  for  your  personal  happiness 
and  the  prosperity  of  Cuba. 

President  Palma  has  received  other  congratulations  from  the  presi- 
dents of  Guatemala  and  Santo  Domingo  and  from  the  Mexican  House 
of  Representatives.  He  also  received  several  congratulatory  messages 
from  Spain  and  hundreds  from  the  United  States. —  Howard  N, 
Thompson,  Correspondent  Associated  Press 

Editor's  Note.  The  opening  paragraph  of  this  story  of  the  inaugu- 
ration of  the  president  of  Cuba  is  all-inclusive.  Only  expansion  and  ampli- 
fications of  these  observations  are  necessary  to  set  before  the  reader  all  the 
rich  details  of  this  auspicious  beginning  of  a  new  republic  and  the  inaugu- 
ration of  its  first  president.  The  first  sentences  are  particularly  happy  and 
replete  with  dignity  and  patriotic  spirit. 

An  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  surroundings,  the  harbor,  the  position  of 
the  boats,  the  decorations  in  the  stores,  together  with  the  emotional  Spanish 
nature,  are  all  shown  in  this  telegraphic  classic  which  was  taken  over  bodily 
by  Vice  President  Fairbanks  and  printed  as  a  Senate  document  in  May,  1902. 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  65 

THE  MESSINA-CALABRIA  DISASTER 

Rome,  January  20. —  Reporting  the  Messina-Calabria  disaster  proved 
so  much  more  difificult  than  any  recent  war,  revolution,  or  even  national 
convention,  that  some  of  the  most  experienced  journalists  in  Europe, 
who  were  sent  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster,  from  London,  Paris,  Vienna, 
Rome,  and  other  capitals,  found  it  the  hardest  task  ever  set  them.  Cer- 
tainly the  obstacles  which  presented  themselves  and  the  variety  and 
imminence  of  the  dangers  exceeded  anything  in  my  experience. 

Messina  is  only  twelve  hours  from  Naples  by  sea,  and  Naples  five 
hours  by  rail  from  Rome.  Yet  sixty  hours  after  the  earthquake  no  direct 
news  had  reached  either  city  from  the  devastated  area.  Newspapers  all 
over  Italy  sent  their  best  correspondents  into  Sicily  and  Calabria  at  the 
first  intimation  of  the  disaster,  but  it  was  four  days  before  the  first  report 
got  back  to  Naples.  More  complete  isolation  of  several  large  cities  there 
could  not  be.  Telegraph  and  telephone  wires  were  down,  all  railway 
lines  broken  and  shipping  communications  utterly  disturbed.  Refugees 
from  Messina  had  reached  various  Sicilian  ports,  but  they  all  told  such 
wild,  such  fantastic  stories  that  no  one  credited  them.  However,  when 
the  King  and  Queen  left  the  capital  for  the  scene  we  knew  that  the 
disaster  was  on  a  large  scale. 

I  was  asked  to  hurry  down  there  first  on  a  private  mission,  and  then 
to  send  newspaper  dispatches.  The  Associated  Press  representative  in 
Rome  was  just  convalescent  from  scarlatina.  A  man  from  the  Paris 
office  was  ordered  to  start  at  once.  As  I  could  probably  reach  Messina 
twenty-four  or  forty-eight  hours  before  him,  I  was  engaged  to  "  cover 
the  earthquake  "  pending  his  arrival,  and  as  it  worked  out,  for  the  fol- 
lowing fortnight.  My  companion  was  an  old  friend,  Guido  Pardo,  one 
of  the  ablest  Italian  war  correspondents.  He  had  covered  the  Greek 
War,  the  Russian-Japanese  War,  the  Russian  Revolution.  We  were 
together  in  Petersburg  three  years  ago,  and  accustomed  to  each  other's 
methods.  He  was  accompanying  me  now  as  colleague  and  interpreter, 
not  with  a  separate  commission. 

The  morning  train  from  Rome  to  Naples  was  literally  jammed  with 
people,  mostly  army  officers  whose  homes  were  in  Sicily,  army  surgeons 
and  newspaper  correspondents.  Several  extra  carriages  were  added  to 
the  train,  and  still  very  many  of  us  were  obliged  to  stand  all  the  way. 
So  far  as  anyone  then  knew,  the  only  ship  leaving  that  night  for  Messina 


66  IVPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

was  an  Italian  post  boat,  tickets  for  which  must  be  purchased  at  the 
general  offices  of  the  company  in  Naples.  The  train  had  scarcely  stopped 
in  the  Naples  station  when  every  cab  and  conveyance  was  commissioned 
and  we,  the  whole  trainload  of  us,  went  madly  rattling  through  dirty, 
crooked  Neapolitan  streets  to  the  steamship  office.  We  arrived  in  a 
crowd  only  to  meet  our  first  setback.  Martial  law  had  been  proclaimed 
in  Messina,  the  Government  had  requisitioned  all  of  the  company's  ships 
and  no  one  could  be  accepted  as  a  passenger  without  proper  credentials 
from  the  authorities.  This  meant  a  serious  delay,  for  official  papers  are 
not  obtained  anywhere  in  Italy  within  an  hour,  and  that  was  all  we  had 
before  the  boat  left  for  Sicily. 

By  merest  chance  Pardo  overheard  a  man  in  the  street  say  something 
about  a  belated  German  ship  just  sailing  for  Messina.  It  seemed  a  long 
chance,  but  we  took  it.  Driving  hurriedly  to  the  quay  we  called  a  barge- 
man and  told  him  to  take  us  to  the  only  German  ship  we  could  see  — 
she  was  lying  in  the  middle  of  the  inner  harbor,  steam  up  and  apparently 
about  to  sail.  Coming  alongside  we  made  inquiries.  She  had  left  Naples 
three  days  before  for  Constantinople  and  had  reached  the  Strait  of 
Messina  a  few  hours  after  the  earthquake.  The  captain  had  taken  it 
upon  himself  to  stop  the  ship,  load  up  with  refugees  and  return  to  Naples. 
She  was  now  about  to  resume  her  interrupted  journey.  Forty  minutes 
after  our  train  rolled  into  the  Naples  railway  station  we  were  steaming 
down  the  glorious  Bay  of  Naples.  In  this  way  it  happened  we  reached 
Messina  a  full  twenty-four  hours  before  any  of  the  other  journalists 
with  whom  we  had  left  Rome.  During  the  evening  we  received  some 
starding  information,  which,  had  it  proved  true,  would  seriously  have 
affected  the  journalistic  standing  of  us  both. 

It  was  to  the  effect  that,  owing  to  the  proclamation  of  martial 
law  at  Messina,  the  ship  would  not  be  allowed  to  land  any  passen- 
gers who  were  not  provided  with  credentials  from  Naples  authorities, 
and  that  we  in  all  probability  would  have  to  continue  on  to  Constanti- 
nople !  To  be  sent  post  haste  to  Sicily  and  turn  up  in  Turkey !  Pardo 
and  I  agreed  to  chance  swimming  ashore  rather  than  suffer  such  a 
humiliation. 

At  daybreak  our  ship  stole  ever  so  carefully  into  Messina  harbor  and 
dropped  anchor  before  the  wretched  city.  No  challenge  was  made  when 
we  rowed  ashore,  so  breathing  more  freely,  but  determined  to  put  our- 
selves right  at  once,  we  proceeded  to  the  military  headquarters  (which 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  6/ 

proved  to  be  aboard  another  ship)  and  presented  ourselves.  "  We  are 
in  Messina,"  we  said.    "  Will  you  kindly  give  us  permission  to  remain  ?  " 

The  location  of  the  nearest  telegraph  office  was  the  next  task.  Up  to 
the  hour  we  left  Naples  not  one  telegram  had  got  through  from  Messina. 
For  aught  we  knew  the  nearest  working  wire  might  be  located  at  Palermo, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  island,  in  which  case  we  should  have  to  establish 
a  courier  service  —  and  here  again  we  were  at  a  loss  in  regard  to  the 
working  of  the  railroads.  Only  experience  could  determine  these  things, 
for  at  a  time  of  such  confusion  no  one's  word  could  be  trusted. 

At  headquarters  we  were  informed  that  a  single  indirect  wire  to 
Palermo  had  been  opened,  beginning  at  about  one  mile  from  the  city 
down  the  railroad  track  from  the  station.  The  station  itself  was  an 
unforgetable  scene,  hundreds  of  wounded  on  improvised  stretchers  — 
doors,  shutters,  planks  —  were  lying  about  the  platform,  often  surrounded 
by  friends  who  tried  to  offer  consolation.  .  .  .  The  telegraph  "  station  " 
proved  to  be  a  tapped  wire  brought  down  into  a  freight  car  on  a  siding. 
No  telegrams  were  being  received,  and  Government  telegrams  had  the 
right  of  way  going  out.  The  officials  in  charge  were  doing  their  utmost, 
but  it  was  simply  impossible  for  a  single  wire  to  carry  the  messages  that 
were  being  filed  there.  As  a  matter  of  form,  to  take  every  chance  that 
offered,  I  filed  two  brief  dispatches  and  decided  to  go  to  Catania  by  the 
earliest  train  and  see  if  I  could  find  better  service  there.  It  was  the  only 
opening  I  could  see  in  any  direction.  The  isolation  of  Messina  was 
complete  save  for  the  governmental  messages,  which  had  to  do  solely 
with  the  plans  for  relief.  I  now  understood  why  the  world  had  remained 
so  long  without  news. 

At  the  station  I  was  told  that  it  would  probably  be  dark  before  the 
next  train  would  start,  so  we  made  a  long  tour  of  the  stricken  city, 
returning  in  time  to  find  a  place  on  the  train.  I  found  myself  in  a  car- 
riage with  sixteen  soldiers  —  a  carriage  designed  for  six  persons.  Slowly 
we  crawled  out  of  Messina  into  the  dark  country.  Not  once  did  we 
move  quickly,  and  the  stops  were  frequent  and  long,  though  I  never 
could  discover  why  we  halted.  After  four  hours  we  reached  a  small, 
insignificant  station  where  the  soldiers  were  called  to  get  out.  Talk  of 
"  rebellion  "  and  "  revolution  "  was  on  everybody's  lips.  It  appeared 
that  the  peasants  at  this  place  had  also  suffered  from  the  earthquake, 
and  when  they  saw  the  trainloads  of  supplies  passing  en  route  for 
Messina  they  began  to  clamor  for  relief.    When  their  hunger  was  not 


68  .  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

satisfied  they  proceeded  to  stop  the  trains,  to  pull  iq)  the  railroad  tracks 
and  help  themselves  to  the  supplies.  Soldiers  had  to  be  withdrawn  from 
rescue  work  in  Messina  to  handle  the  situation  and  "'  put  down  the  revo- 
lution," as  the  officers  expressed  it.  It  seemed  wise  for  me  to  remain 
here  to  see  what  would  happen  and  to  work  back  to  Messina  as  soon 
after  as  possible,  while  Pardo  continued  on  to  Catania.  Ordinarily,  it  is 
a  four  hours'  journey  from  Messina  to  Catania.  This  train  took  over 
eleven.  Pardo  filed  my  dispatches  at  half-past  five  in  the  morning,  and 
that  telegram  was  the  first  direct  report  to  reach  Rome.  And  I  under- 
stand it  was  published  in  the  newspapers  of  the  United  States  before 
the  newspapers  of  Naples,  Rome,  Milan  or  any  other  Italian  city  had 
yet  heard  from  their  correspondents. 

The  "  revolution  "  did  not  materialize  formidably,  and  I  started  back 
to  Messina,  reaching  there  rather  quicker  than  I  had  come  out.  It  was 
the  middle  of  the  night  when  I  found  myself  again  picking  my  way  over 
and  around  the  stretchers  that  completely  blocked  the  Messina  station. 
But  I  noticed  that  many  a  stretcher  was  now  occupied  by  a  corpse. 
One  of  the  outer  platforms  had  been  cleared  for  the  dead. 

Messina  by  night  was  terrible  at  that  time.  Fires  smoldered  in  many 
of  the  buildings,  and  here  and  there  rich  red  flames  swept  up  above  the 
ruins.  The  odor  of  charred  and  putrefied  flesh  was  sickcningly  heavy  in 
the  air.  Bodies  were  still  lying  over  the  surface  of  the  ruins,  with  limbs 
not  infrequently  protruding.  I  heard  no  human  groans,  but  the  pitiful 
weird  cries  of  imprisoned  cats  and  the  long  whines  of  starving  dogs 
trapped  under  the  de'bris  were  constant.  Having  eaten  only  concentrated 
foods,  beef  in  capsules,  and  oranges  all  day,  I  was  tolerably  hungry,  but 
there  was  no  help  for  it.  Pood  could  not  be  bought  at  any  price.  Nor 
was  there  drink  to  be  had.  The  rain  was  still  driving  down  from  the 
snow-capped  hills  and  the  wind  blew  icy  cold,  striking  sharply  against 
my  drenched  clothes.  The  problem  of  shelter  for  the  night  presented 
itself  and  was  solved  by  my  giving  it  up.  Like  the  refugees  themselves, 
I  had  not  where  to  lay  my  head.  At  last,  through  sheer  exhaustion,  I 
lay  down  on  the  open  quay,  my  arm  for  a  pillow  and  my  overcoat  for 
a  blanket. 

The  journalists  with  whom  I  had  left  Rome  arrived  the  next  morning 
by  a  ship  that  was  scheduled  to  start  back  to  Naples  within  two  hours 
with  a  load  of  wounded.  We  might  have  known  that  a  thousand  stretchers 
could  not  be  carried  aboard  a  vessel  in  that  time,  but  several  of  the  best 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  69 

known  writers  in  the  European  press  were  there,  and  they  all  decided 
to  return  to  Naples  at  once,  and  from  there  telephone  their  "  impressions  " 
of  the  disaster  to  Rome,  from  whence  telegrams  would  be  sent  to  Paris, 
Berlin  and  Vienna. 

At  nightfall  the  boat  was  still  at  Messina.  The  passengers  were  as- 
sured that  it  would  start  at  any  moment,  so  most  of  the  journalists  went 
to  bed  expecting  to  wake  up  in  Naples.  But  at  breakfast  time  they  were 
still  in  Messina.  I  had  intrusted  telegrams  to  a  courier  on  the  ship,  so  I, 
too,  was  chafing  under  this  delay.  But  having  reason  to  believe  that 
Pardo  had  put  through  my  first  report  from  Catania  (as  he  did),  I 
was  not  in  the  state  of  frenzy  of  the  others,  who  had  not  been  able  to 
report  at  all. 

When  the  ship  did  start  she  made  an  exasperatingly  slow  trip,  and  only 
reached  Naples  that  night  at  midnight.  Telephone  wires  from  there  to 
Rome  had  all  been  reserved  for  the  Government,  so,  after  all,  telegrams 
had  to  be  filed,  but  owing  to  the  lateness  of  the  hour  only  the  briefest 
dispatches  stood  the  slightest  chance  of  getting  through  in  time  for  the 
morning  newspaper.  This  really  resulted  in  a  delay  of  another  twenty- 
four  hours,  so  far  as  most  of  Europe  was  concerned,  in  regard  to 
hearing  the  facts  of  the  disaster. 

While  this  ship  was  delaying  the  impatient  correspondents  in  Messina, 
and  en  route  for  Naples,  Pardo  worked  his  weary  way  back  from  Cata- 
nia, arriving  in  time  to  hear  that  a  French  torpedo  boat  was  just  start- 
ing for  the  mainland.  I  had  fresh  telegrams  ready,  and  Pardo,  taking 
them,  managed  in  some  extraordinary  way  to  get  passage  on  it.  These 
telegrams  he  filed  somewhere  outside  of  Reggia,  and  they  went  through 
to  Rome  in  the  almost  incredible  time  of  four  hours. 

Having  left  the  torpedo  boat  he  was  without  shelter  that  night  in 
Calabria,  or  would  have  been,  had  not  the  Italian  battleship  A'apoli 
dropped  anchor  near  shore,  and  out  to  her  went  Pardo.  He  was 
graciously  received  and  put  up  for  the  night. 

Curiously  enough,  that  same  night  I  determined  to  test  the  hospitality 
of  a  British  warship.  H.M.S.  Minerva  was  then  lying  off  Messina,  so 
hailing  one  of  her  officers,  I  explained  my  predicament  and  was  instantly 
taken  aboard  and  most  comfortably  accommodated  for  the  night.  .  .  . 

Through  the  days  we  who  remained  in  Messina  tramped  endless  miles 
over  the  hapless  ruins,  sometimes  stumbling  over  the  dead,  occasionally 
lending  a  hand  to  the  injured.    We  ate  what  we  could  get  from  wherever 


70  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

we  could  get  it.  Once  a  soldier  gave  me  some  black  bread.  Another 
day  a  government  clerk  gave  me  a  tin  of  salt  beef.  When  1  could  I 
gathered  oranges  from  the  trees  in  the  gardens  of  the  destroyed  villages 
or  from  a  grove  near  the  town. 

The  night  after  I  slept  on  the  Minora,  for  want  of  a  better  place  I 
tried  a  hospital  ship.  It  was  empty  when  I  turned  in,  but  during  the 
night  it  was  filled  up  with  wounded  and  I  could  not  stand  it.  The  rest 
of  the  night  I  walked  the  deck. 

The  Sunday  after  the  disaster  the  United  States  station  ship  at  Con- 
stantinople, the  Scorpion,  arrived  at  Messina.  Lieutenant-Commander 
Logan  was  good  enough  to  ask  me  to  dine  on  board.  At  half-past  six  I 
hailed  a  small  boat  to  go  out  to  the  Scorpion.  We  had  not  got  three 
yards  from  the  shore  when  three  Italian  staff  officers  came  rushing  along 
the  quay  and  ordered  my  boatman  to  return  for  them.  In  vain  I  expos- 
tulated that  I  had  a  dinner  engagement  on  board  a  warship.  They  had 
important  dispatches  to  deliver  at  several  ships  —  they  would  not  detain 
me  long  —  I  would  please  sit  where  I  was.  My  boat  was  simply  com- 
mandeered by  them  and  I  along  with  it.  Instead  of  reaching  the  Scor- 
pion at  seven  o'clock,  it  was  just  9.15  when  I  got  aboard,  and  then  the 
commander  told  me  that  they  were  leaving  in  fifteen  minutes  for  Naples. 

That  was  the  first  chance  I  had  had  that  day  to  get  telegrams  started 
with  a  reasonable  chance  of  speedy  delivery.  But  they  were  not  written. 
The  commander,  however,  said  I  might  go  up  to  Naples  with  them,  the 
Scorpion  would  remain  there  twenty-four  hours  and  then  return  to  Mes- 
sina. So  it  happened  that  I  arrived  at  Naples  early  the  next  afternoon. 
Finding  all  wires  to  Rome,  telegraph  and  telephone  alike,  in  use,  and 
learning  that  a  train  left  in  thirty  minutes,  I  decided  to  go  to  Rome. 
The  train  was  delayed  and  would  not  arrive  till  ten  o'clock.  Between 
then  and  three  in  the  morning  I  wrote  the  fuller  details  of  the  disaster 
that  could  not  be  put  into  telegrams,  when  all  the  wires  were  crowded, 
and  caught  the  first  morning  train  back  to  Naples,  reaching  the  Scorpion 
within  five  minutes  of  the  time  for  her  departure.  The  next  day  we 
were  back  amidst  the  falling  walls  of  Messina.  .  .  .  During  the  fortnight 
I  was  in  and  around  Messina  there  were  twenty  odd  earthquakes  of 
greater  or  less  severity.  At  many,  tottering  walls  would  fall,  and  all 
were  terrifying  enough.  The  great  boom  of  the  shock,  like  mighty  but 
distant  thunder,  then  the  tremendous  heaving  of  the  earth,  fills  one  with 
a  fearful  helplessness,  even  one  who  is  accustomed  to  strange  experiences 


STORIES  BY  WIRE  7 1 

amid  all  kinds  of  dangers.  The  effects  of  the  great  shock  upon  most  of 
the  survivors  was  to  stun  them,  leaving  their  senses  numb  and  paralyzed. 
Even  wounded  people  forgot  or  did  not  notice  their  wounds.  When  this 
began  to  pass  and  realization  of  pain,  grief  and  sensation  to  return,  their 
nerves  were  on  a  wire  edge.  The  tremor  of  a  quake  filled  them  with  a 
consuming  fear. 

Editor's  Note.  In  this  story  of  the  Messina  earthquake,  written  by  Kellogg 
Durland,  are  shown  some  of  the  demands  made  upon  the  endurance  and  re- 
sourcefulness of  the  foreign  correspondent.  Although  Messina  was  detached 
at  this  time  from  the  rest  of  the  world  by  the  ill  fortune  of  earthquake,  it  was 
still  a  focal  point  for  newspapers  and  no  means  were  spared  to  reach  it  and 
report  its  deplorable  condidon. 

Half  the  interest  of  this  story  centers  about  the  correspondent  and  his  ex- 
periences in  getting  the  news  through,  despite  hunger,  loss  of  sleep,  hysterical 
and  wounded  people,  the  stench  of  charred  bodies,  the  falling  of  walls,  and  the 
repeated  quaking  of  the  earth.  Quite  unconsciously  the  description  is  a  tribute 
to  the  calm  poise  of  man  in  the  face  of  an  overwhelming  catastrophe.  There 
is  no  attempt  at  literature.  Incident  after  incident  in  the  long  horror  are 
simply  related  without  elaboration  or  embellishment.  The  disaster  itself  shaped 
its  own  rhetoric,  as  is  always  true  when  a  writer  loses  sight  of  himself  and  of 
his  own  technique. 

The  reader  of  this  story  may  add  an  interesting  corollary  to  the  earthquake 
here  described  by  reading  some  of  the  letters  written  by  the  younger  Pliny, 
79  A.D.,  in  which  he  describes  the  scenes  on  the  slopes  of  the  vengeful  Vesu- 
vius —  the  showers  of  ashes,  horrified  crowds,  and  the  appalling  havoc  of  death 
on  every  side.  Although  written  many  centuries  ago,  this  account  is  still  as 
vivid  and  fresh  as  some  of  the  ancient  frescoes  disinterred  from  a  buried  tomb. 


V 

HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES 

Broadly  considL-rcd,  any  story  that  secures  a  place  in  the  news- 
paper must  have  a  quality  of  human-interest.  It  deals  with 
people  and  with  some  interesting  episode  in  which  they  are  con- 
cerned. Preeminently  the  newspaper  is  a  human  document  alive 
with  the  actual. 

In  a  special  sense,  however,  human-interest  is  that  quality  of  a 
situation  or  news  event  that  lifts  it  from  the  commonplace  round 
of  the  day's  happenings  and  gives  it  a  wide  appeal.  A  news  story 
is  apt  to  hinge  upon  a  local  event  in  a  particular  setting.  Its 
appeal  is  therefore  directed  toward  a  limited  few.  The  human- 
interest  tale,  on  the  other  hand,  makes  a  frank  use  of  such 
elemental  emotions  and  instincts  as  curiosity,  love,  fear,  surprise, 
humor,  pity,  sorrow,  the  struggle  for  life,  wealth,  and  happiness, 
all  of  which  find  a  ready  response  in  a  common  humanity. 

The  types  of  human-interest  stories  may  be  roughly  classified 
according  to  their  emotional  appeal. 

One  group  seizes  upon  the  dramatic  and  the  heroic  as  its  mate- 
rials —  a  girl  leaping  into  a  life  net,  a  street-corner  policeman  who 
rescues  a  cripple,  a  flood  that  sweeps  a  city  to  destruction,  a  father 
who  gives  his  blood  that  his  weakening  child  may  live,  a  man's  rise 
through  gripping  poverty  to  a  shining  business  success. 

Another  type  emphasizes  the  freak  adventures  of  animals  —  an 
angry  elephant  blockading  street  traffic,  a  cat  that  falls  twelve  sto- 
ries and  alights  on  her  feet,  as  examples  ;  while  still  another  brings 
tears  of  sympathy  —  witness  the  story  of  a  little  bluc-eycd  girl  per- 
manently crippled  by  a  war  bomb  dropped  from  a  Zeppelin  airship. 

Humor  likewise  becomes  a  piquant  sauce  for  the  delectation  of 
the  reading  public.  Little  whimsicalities  of  the  street  and  curb, 
sidelights  of  the  police  court  or  railroad  station,  cast  a  shaft  of 
sunlight  upon  the  dull  monotony  of  the  day's  happenings.    The 

72 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  73 

newspaper  man  is  always  eager  to  write  these  transcripts  of  actual 
life,  not  that  he  may  inform  or  instruct  —  though  it  should  be 
remembered  that  the  quality  of  human  interest  enlarges  the  scope 
of  the  news  story  —  but  rather  that  he  may  entertain,  amuse,  or 
arouse  an  emotional  echo  in  the  hearts  of  his  readers. 

The  human-interest  story,  therefore,  shows  an  intimate  relation- 
ship to  the  short  story  in  its  unity  of  impression  and  in  its  artistic 
blending  of  character,  setting,  and  incident.  It  shows  a  divergence 
in  the  fact  that  the  short  story  is  an  imaginative  portrayal  of  a 
single  experience,  while  the  human-interest  tale  finds  its  materials 
ready  at  hand  in  the  busy  world  of  people.  In  shaping  these  mate- 
rials it  uses  every  accessory  of  narration  —  dialogue,  suppression  of 
the  unessential,  ingenious  coupling  of  episodes,  dramatic  sequence, 
picture-making  words. 

In  many  human-interest  stories  the  element  of  suspense  or 
mystery  is  the  chief  ingredient.  The  reader  is  first  interested,  then 
lured  from  paragraph  to  paragraph  until  the  climax  halts  him. 
The  introductory  sentences,  unlike  the  conventional  news  story, 
do  not  gather  up  the  gist  of  the  news  in  a  swift  chronicle ;  they 
merely  start  the  action  and  quicken  curiosity.  They  do  not  satisfy 
it.  The  story  proceeds  like  the  unfolding  of  a  dramatic  scene  or 
the  development  of  a  plot.  It  has  a  cast  of  characters,  a  setting, 
and  a  muster  of  events  terminating  in  a  definite  goal,  the  unravel- 
ing of  the  knot  of  mystery. 

The  human-interest  story  is  difficult  to  write.  It  requires  a 
story-teller's  art,  a  nimble  dexterity  with  words,  imagination,  and 
ingenuity.  It  can  easily  be  spoiled  by  strained  emotional  appeal, 
flippant  touch,  and  an  unwillingness  to  lift  the  brush  from  the 
canvas  when  the  picture  has  been  completed.  Its  success  depends 
largely  upon  its  method  of  treatment. 

The  following  stories,  conveniently  grouped  according  to  con- 
tent and  appeal,  will  be  found  useful  in  considering  the  materials 
and  methods  of  the  human-interest  yarn. 


74  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  SlURlES 

MRS.  TASH   OF  THE  CABBAGE  PATCH 

A 
THE  WOLF  LIFTS  A  LATCH 

Mrs.  Tash  of  the  Cabbage  Patch  and  her  five  little  children  are  huddled 
around  the  stove  in  the  kitchen  while  the  snow  slants  past  the  window 
and  the  wind  of  the  north  gale  whistles 

There,  "  around  the  corner,"  almost  crept  in.  To  be  absolutely  exact, 
the  wind  moans  and  groans  so  loudly  as  it  blows  up  through  the  many 
wide  cracks  in  the  bare  kitchen  floor  that  its  whistling  "  around  the 
corners  "  cannot  be  heard  at  all. 

A  pot  of  potatoes  is  bubbling  cheerily  on  the  kitchen  stove,  every  once 
in  a  while  spurting  a  little  jet  of  hot  water  from  beneath  the  tin  lid  to 
sizzle  on  the  hot  stove  and  disappear  in  a  curl  of  steam  toward  the  ceiling. 

The  five  children  watch  that  boiling  pot.  In  it  is  their  supper.  Mrs. 
Tash  has  a  hard  time  keeping  them  away  from  it.  David,  the  eldest,  who 
is  1 2  years  old,  sits  in  the  corner  behind  the  stove  with  a  piece  of  box 
cover  sharpened  at  one  end.  This  he  occasionally  inserts  in  the  ring  in 
the  pot  lid  and  lifts  the  cover  to  look  in  at  the  white  potatoes  and  the 
water  sputtering  around  and  over  them. 

Now  there  are  just  two  articles  of  food  in  that  house  of  Mrs.  Tash  near 
the  packing-house  dump  in  Armourdale  —  a  sack  of  potatoes  under  the 
table  and  a  sack  of  flour  in  the  corner  behind  the  door.  The  breakfast 
was  of  bread,  nothing  else.  The  dinner.  Why,  there  was  n't  any  dinner. 
The  supper  is  to  be  of  potatoes  and  biscuit. 

"  Have  n't  you  any  meat  ? "  the  visitor  asked  Mrs.  Tash  of  the  Cab- 
bage Patch. 

"  No,  indeed ;  we  haven  't  had  any  meat  for  a  long  time.  I  tell  you, 
mister,  meat  costs  too  much.    We  just  can't  afford  it." 

"  And  you  '11  just  have  boiled  potatoes  for  supper }  " 

"  Yes,  but  potatoes  stay  with  you.  They  're  awful  filling  and  the 
children  like  them." 

Mrs.  Tash  of  the  Cabbage  Patch  moved  from  over  a  wide  crack  in 
the  floor  through  which  such  a  mighty  draft  was  coming  that  it  bal- 
looned her  thick  skirt  out  like  the  old-fashioned  hoop  skirts  that  one 
sees  in  the  fashion  pictures  of  fifty  years  ago. 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  75 

"  Don't  look  at  the  floor,"  she  says.  "  It 's  awful  dirty.  (That  was 
the  truth,  too.)  But  if  I  scrubbed  it  the  dampness  might  give  the  babies 
cold.  And  we  all  have  to  stay  in  the  kitchen  all  the  time  in  this  cold 
weather.    We  haven't  a  stove  in  the  other  two  rooms." 

The  little  girl,  Maggie,  9  years  old,  goes  to  school.  The  other  four  can- 
not go.   Maggie  is  the  only  one  of  the  five  who  has  shoes  that  are  whole. 

"  Maybe  they  are  better  off  here  with  me  in  the  kitchen  than  out  in 
this  snow,"  the  mother  said.  "  I  can  watch  them  here.  But  I  do  hope 
the  truant  officer  won't  come." 

"  It  was  the  truant  officer  what  made  my  twin  sister  die,"  piped  Harry, 
who  is  7  years  old. 

"  Hush,  Harry,  you  must  n't  say  that,"  interrupted  this  second 
Mrs.  Wiggs,  who  finds  a  homely  philosophy  to  cover  every  hardship. 
Then  she  explains  :  "  The  truant  officer  made  his  little  twin  sister  go  to 
school  last  winter  in  the  snow  when  she  had  only  rags  for  shoes  on  her 
feet.  She  died  of  the  cough,  but  then  I  don't  blame  the  truant  officer. 
Children  are  bound  to  have  diseases  whenever  God  sends  the  sickness, 
no  matter  how  they  dress." 

Stout  little  David,  sitting  behind  the  stove,  says :  "  Well,  I  wish  the 
truant  officer  would  leave  us  alone  or  else  give  us  shoes." 

There  is  n't  a  cent  in  the  house.  The  husband,  who  drinks,  is  off 
with  his  express  wagon  and  horse,  standing  at  the  State  Line  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  haul  a  trunk  or  some  other  load. 

"  Does  n't  he  earn  anything  ?  "  Mrs.  Tash  was  asked. 

"  He  earned  a  dollar  yesterday,  but  he  did  n't  bring  any  of  it  home," 
she  replied.  "  He  had  to  get  a  bite  to  eat  out  of  that  and  a  couple  of 
drinks,  and  he  had  to  pay  on  a  horse  blanket.  It 's  a  great  expense  to 
own  a  horse  these  days.  The  law  makes  him  have  the  horse  shod,  and 
a  lantern  on  the  wagon,  and  a  hitching  weight  and  a  blanket  for  the  horse. 
The  law  thinks  more  of  horses  than  it  does  of  children.  But  then 
horses  just  have  to  work  out  in  all  kinds  of  weather." 

"  I  should  think  he  could  do  without  the  drinks  when  his  children 
are  barefooted,"  the  visitor  said. 

"  Don't  you  ever  take  a  drink  ?  Come  now,"  she  bantered.  "  Do  you 
think  because  he  is  so  poor  that  he  don't  want  a  drink,  too,  just  the  same 
as  you  when  he  gets  to  feeling  mean  ?  He  is  a  good  man.  He  brings 
the  most  of  his  money  to  me  when  he  makes  it.  He  is  n't  like  this  man 
who  lives  in  the  alley  near  the  dump.    He  has  five  children,  too,  but  he 


-je  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  S'lORIES 

drinks  up  all  he  makes  and  I  tell  you  they  suffer.  My  husband  is  a  good 
man.  He  gets  out  of  heart  so  that  he  can't  eat.  I  call  him  down  if  he 
drinks  too  much,  but  poor  man,  I  hate  to  do  it.    It 's  his  only  comfort." 

She  washed  Herbert's  face  and  changed  his  ragged  waist  for  another 
one  —  that  was  cleaner.  This  disclosed  that  Herbert,  who  is  3  years  old, 
had  on  no  underclothing  —  nothing  but  the  thin  cotton  waist. 

"  There  is  n't  a  one  of  the  five  that  has  a  stitch  of  underclothes," 
Mrs.  Tash  said.    "  I  have  n't  got  them." 

"  You  have  underclothes,  have  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Me  ?"  she  says  with  a  laugh.  "  I  haven't  had  a  stitch  of  underclothes 
for  three  years.  But  I'm  used  to  it.  My  husband  says  I  ought  to  have 
an  undershirt  because  of  the  pain  I  have  all  the  time  in  my  chest.  But 
I  can  make  out.  I'm  strong,  and  I'm  used  to  it.  You  know  a  person 
can  get  used  to  anything,  and  underclothes  is  a  habit  more  'n  anything 
else.  But  I  do  wish  I  had  some  for  the  babies.  But  maybe  if  they  had 
underclothes,  they  would  n't  be  as  healthy  as  they  are,  and  then  we  'd 
have  doctor  bills  to  pay  and  how  would  we  pay  them  ? " 

She  showed  a  letter  she  had  received  from  Mrs.  Clair  Bruce,  60  North 
Ninth  Street,  Kansas  City,  Kans.,  asking  her  if  she  would  give  her  one 
of  her  children  to  rear. 

"  I  can't  read,  but,  here,  you  read  that  letter.  It  says  that  she  wants 
one  of  my  babies,  don't  it  ?   Well  she  won't  get  one  of  them." 

She  lifted  Herbert  to  her  lap  and  cuddled  him.  His  face  was  clean 
now,  and  his  bright  eyes  sparkled. 

"I'm  proud  of  them  all,"  she  said.  "Did  you  ever  see  brighter  and 
healthier  children  ? " 

It  was  a  fact,  they  were  as  bright  and  as  healthy  as  could  be. 

"  There  is  just  one  thing  I  dread,"  she  said.  "  I  am  afraid  the  officers 
will  take  one  of  them  away  from  me.  They  do  that,  don't  they,  when 
families  get  so  awful  poor  ? " 

There  was  fear  in  her  face  as  she  snuggled  her  baby  boy  to  her. 

"  I  keep  them  off  the  cold  floor  as  well  as  I  can,  and  I  keep  them  in- 
doors this  cold  weather,  and  even  if  we  haven't  much  to  eat,  potatoes 
are  good.  I  've  heard  them  say  that  in  Ireland  they  live  on  potatoes, 
and  the  Irish  are  the  healthiest  people  in  the  world." 

Tomorrow  is  Thanksgiving  Day.  This  family  of  poor  children  lives  at 
922  St.  Paul  street,  Armourdale. — A,  B.  MacDonald,  in  Kansas  City  Star 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  TJ 

B 

RAINED  GIFTS  IN   SANDTOWN 

(The  Sequel) 

The  spirit  of  Thanksgiving  spread  throughout  Sandtown  today,  and  a 
dozen  families  and  twenty  children  had  more  Thanksgiving  cheer  than 
they  ever  dreamed  existed  in  the  whole  world. 

It  all  began  with  the  troubles  of  Mrs.  Tash  and  her  five  little  children, 
told  of  yesterday  in  The  Star.  They  live  in  Sandtown  —  that  part  of 
Armourdale  lying  near  the  railroad  tracks  and  the  river,  south  of  Miami 
street  and  west  of  the  Sulzberger  &  Sons'  packing  house.  The  houses 
there  are  mostly  one-story  frame  cottages  that  had  been  lifted  from  their 
foundations  by  the  flood  of  1903  and  wrenched  and  twisted.  The  walls 
and  floors  are  full  of  gaping  cracks  and  the  doors  and  windows  all  awry, 
for  the  winds  of  winter  to  carry  colds  and  coughs  and  death  to  the 
children  who  live  there. 

And  there  are  so  many  children,  too.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  poor 
folk  who  live  there  that  they  have  lots  and  lots  of  children,  and  most  of 
them  know  what  it  is  to  be  hungry  and  to  shiver  with  the  cold. 

The  story  of  Mrs.  Tash  and  her  five  children  touched  the  hearts  and 
purses  of  at  least  a  thousand  persons.  That  many  went  to  the  Tash 
home  today,  and  each  one  took  something.  It  began  at  daylight.  They 
came  on  foot,  in  buggies,  in  motor  cars.  If  you  stood  in  front  of  the 
Tash  home  at  9  o'clock  this  morning  and  looked  up  St.  Paul  street 
toward  the  street-car  tracks,  you  saw  something  like  a  great  picnic 
party  coming  down  with  baskets  and  bundles. 

By  10  o'clock  Mrs.  Tash  was  swamped,  literally  swamped.  The  one 
bed  in  the  front  room  was  piled  so  high  with  clothing  of  all  kinds  that 
no  more  could  be  put  on  it.  Little  David  had  four  overcoats  at  that  hour, 
and  they  kept  coming.  He  had  never  had  an  overcoat  before,  and  he 
kept  trying  them  on,  one  after  the  other. 

Mrs.  Tash,  who  had  not  worn  a  stitch  of  underclothing  in  three  years, 
had  a  dozen  suits  now,  and  there  were  shoes  and  stockings  and  other 
clothing  enough  to  last  the  family  a  year. 

There  were  so  many  baskets  of  groceries  and  chickens  that  Mrs.  Tash, 
after  she  had  piled  the  kitchen  table  with  all  it  would  hold  and  stuffed 
the  space  under  the  table  full,  began  to  push  them  under  the  bed. 


yS  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Long  before  noon  the  house  had  all  it  could  hold,  and  the  good  woman 
told  of  another  family,  that  of  Mrs.  Hogoboon,  at  919  South  Packard 
street,  that  was  as  badly  off  as  she  had  been  yesterday. 

So  across  lots  to  Mrs.  Hogoboon's  went  the  crowd.  They  found  her 
and  her  four  children  in  the  kitchen  sitting  around  the  stove.  She  had 
just  finished  skinning  two  rabbits,  and  they  were  ready  to  put  on  the 
stove  for  the  Thanksgiving  dinner. 

"  But,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  believe  I  've  got  enough  coal  to  cook  them." 

"  Well,  how  much  have  you  ?  "  asked  a  woman  whose  motor  car  was 
around  on  the  other  street. 

"  There  it  is  in  the  scuttle,"  said  Mrs.  Hogoboon.  "  I  bought  a  dime's 
worth  this  morning." 

And  that  was  her  last  dime,  too.  Her  husband  was  out  on  his  express 
wagon  trying  to  make  enough  to  buy  some  more  coal  before  the  chill  of 
evening  came  on.  She  said  he  felt  ver}^  lucky  when  he  earned  as  much 
as  a  dollar  in  one  day. 

Well,  the  food  problem  w-as  soon  solved  for  that  family.  The  kitchen 
was  half  filled  with  baskets  in  no  time.  And  the  little  girl  kicked  off  the 
thin  slippers  she  had  worn  all  through  this  cold  snap  and  covered  her 
toes  with  a  pair  of  warm  shoes  that  just  fitted  her.  While  all  that  was 
going  on  a  woman  went  over  to  the  coal  office  and  paid  for  a  ton  of  coal 
to  be  dumped  into  their  shed  this  very  day. 

Still  the  baskets  kept  coming.  The  yard  was  full  of  persons  waiting 
to  give  things  away. 

"  WTiere  are  some  more  folks  that  have  n't  any  Thanksgiving  dinner .'  " 
they  clamored. 

Mrs.  Hogoboon  told  of  a  Mrs.  Cogswell,  a  poor  widow  who  works 
over  the  tubs.  Away  in  her  direction  went  the  crowd,  laughing  and  full 
of  the  Spirit  of  Thanksgiving. 

It  took  some  searching  to  find  Mrs.  Cogswell.  Finally  a  boy  pointed 
out  the  place,  upstairs  over  an  empty  store  with  its  front  windows 
boarded  up. 

Up  the  rickety  stairs  went  the  men,  women  and  children,  their  feet 
clattering  loudly  in  the  empty  hallway.  They  pushed  open  the  door,  and 
there  was  Mrs.  Cogswell  over  a  washtub,  her  arms  in  the  suds  up  to 
her  elbows  and  her  little  girl  turning  the  crank  of  the  wringer. 

"■  Mercy  me  1  What 's  this  ?  "  the  woman  exclaimed  as  she  straight- 
ened up. 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  79 

In  the  little  kitchen  where  she  was  washing  there  was  scarcely  room 
to  get  around  behind  the  two  tubs  and  the  wringer  and  the  basket  of 
steaming  clothing. 

"  Will  you  accept  a  Thanksgiving  dinner  ? "  a  woman  asked  kindly  as 
she  stuck  a  big  basket  through  the  door. 

"  Well,  the  good  Lord  must  have  sent  it,"  the  poor  washerwoman  said 
as  she  leaned  one  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  tub  and  wiped  soap  suds  into 
her  eyes  with  the  other. 

"  And  here  's  another ;  there  's  turkey  in  it,"  said  a  little  girl  who  had 
come  all  the  way  with  her  mother  from  Mount  Washington. 

And  there  were  more,  and  more,  and  more. 

"  What  were  you  going  to  have  for  dinner,  anyway  ?  "  a  man  asked. 

"  Why,  we  were  hurrying  to  get  this  washing  done  so  we  could  have 
anything  at  all,"  she  said. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  nothing  to  eat  in  the  house  at  all  ? " 
he  demanded. 

"  Not  a  thing;  we  ate  the  last  for  breakfast,  and  it  was  pretty  slim." 

"  Well,  come  on  now,  drop  that  washing  and  cook  up  a  good  dinner." 

"  I  must  get  this  washing  out  first.  The  folks  have  promised  me  the 
seventy-five  cents  if  I  bring  it  before  noon." 

"  Here  's  a  dollar ;  let  'em  wait  till  tomorrow  for  the  washing,"  the 
man  said. 

"  And  here  's  two  more,"  another  man  said. 

And  they  just  made  her  sit  down  and  begin  to  get  that  turkey  ready 
for  the  stove.  And  then  a  good  angel  of  a  woman  whisked  the  little  girl 
away  to  Kansas  avenue  in  her  motor  car  and  when  she  came  back  she 
had  on  new  shoes  and  a  new  coat  and  a  thick  knitted  Tam-o-Shanter  cap 
and  a  new  dress  and  some  warm  stockings  in  a  bundle.  And  as  the  little 
girl  came  up  the  stairs  to  her  mother  she  was  crying,  and  her  mother, 
who  had  been  a  widow  for  ten  years  and  in  all  that  time  had  never  had 
a  dollar  that  did  n't  come  out  of  the  washtub,  was  weeping,  too,  as  she 
caught  the  girl  up  in  her  arms  and  hugged  her. —  A.  B.  MacDonald, 
in  Kansas  City  Star 


So  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


PLAN  A  CHRISTMAS  WOLF  DRIVE 

R.  R.  Richardson,  founder  of  the  "'  Big  Brothers'  "  Society,  that  did 
so  much  good  last  winter,  got  a  new  idea  from  reading  the  story  of  Mrs. 
Tash  in  the  Sfur  yesterday.  He  is  going  to  organize  one  thousand  per- 
sons into  a  club  to  help  the  poor  this  Christmas.  Each  of  the  thousand 
will  give  Si,  and  that  will  create  a  fund  of  $1000  with  which  to  buy  a 
Christmas  dinner  for  all  who  cannot  get  it  in  any  other  way. 

When  Mr.  Richardson  read  of  the  need  of  Mrs.  Tash  and  her  five 
children  he  sent  an  announcement  to  the  S/ar,  which  was  published  this 
morning,  that  he  would  give  something  himself  and  would  receive  and 
send  to  Mrs.  Tash  all  that  others  might  leave  at  his  office,  201  Scarritt 
Building. 

At  noon  today  he  had  collected  $29  in  money  and  enough  groceries 
and  clothing  to  fill  two  wagons.  He  divided  it  all  equally  among  Mrs. 
Tash,  Mrs.  Cogswell  and  Mrs.  Hogoboon. 

'"  Now,"  Mr.  Richardson  said,  "  I  am  convinced  that  the  wolf  has  lifted 
the  latch  of  many  a  home,  and  it  is  a  pretty  lean  and  hungry  wolf,  too. 
I  want  one  thousand  men  to  send  me  $1  apiece  and  I  will  hire  a  good 
man  for  $75  to  work  between  now  and  Christmas  searching  out  the 
deserving  poor,  and  we  will  find  out  which  need  coal,  and  clothing  and 
groceries,  and  just  before  Christmas  we  will  buy  the  coal  and  groceries 
we  need  at  the  lowest  wholesale  price  and  deliver  it." — Kansas  City  Star 

Editor's  Note.  In  this  heart-interest  story  of  the  Tashes,  with  the  strik- 
ing figurative  title,  the  reporter  has  omitted  no  detail  which  might  call  forth  a 
response  from  generous  folk.  The  crack  in  the  floor,  through  which  the  wind 
blows,  the  lack  of  underclothing,  the  man's  poor  wage,  his  craving  for  a  com- 
forting drink,  the  wife's  loyalty  to  him  and  unselfish  devotion  to  her  children 
—  all  are  brought  into  bold  relief.  Nothing  is  spared.  In  spite  of  an  unbal- 
anced diet  of  potatoes  and  flour  the  children  are  healthy  looking.  In  a  Dickens 
piece  of  ficdon  they  would  have  been  pinched  and  starved ;  but  this  is  a  real 
story,  in  a  real  house,  in  a  real  street  in  Armourdale. 

The  reporter  does  not  moralize  or  suggest  that  in  view  of  the  approach  of 
Thanksgiving  kind  readers  ought  to  think  of  those  less  fortunate  than  them- 
selves. He  simply  recites  a  real  need,  and  the  next  day  it  "  Rained  Gifts  in 
Sandtown."  It  is  not  necessary  for  the  writer  to  preach  a  sermon  on  the 
abstract  commonplace:  "It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive."  He 
makes  concrete  this  well-known  aphorism. 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  8 1 

The  danger  in  this  kind  of  appeal  is  that  the  reporter  is  likely  to  overreach 
himself  in  his  attempt  to  create  atmosphere  and  emotional  appeal.  Often  the 
story  becomes  pure  fiction.  The  authenticity  of  this  tale  is  proved  by  the  follow- 
up  story  of  the  next  day,  when  the  Stai-  led  gift-bearing  men,  women  and 
children  of  all  classes  to  the  Cabbage  Patch. 

This  series  of  stories  furnishes  proof  of  the  influence  of  the  newspaper  upon 
the  generous  impulses  of  people  who  often  seem  calloused  and  indifferent.  Such 
stories  start  ever-widening  circles.  Other  newspapers  and  institutions  adopt 
similar  methods  for  social  uplift  —  Christmas  ships,  community  Christmas 
trees,  the  placing  of  orphans  in  good  homes,  the  relief  of  starving  Belgians  in 
war  time,  and  the  good-fellow  movement  the  world  over. 

Of  this  group  of  three  stories  the  second  brings  a  lump  to  the  throat.  One 
is  tempted  to  paraphrase  Wordsworth's  familiar  lines : 

I  've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning  ; 
Alas  !  the  kindness  of  men's  hearts 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

The  story  "  The  Wolf  Lifts  a  Latch  "  and  its  sequel  were  not  dashed  off  on 
the  inspiration  of  the  moment.  Its  author  admits  that  he  made  a  thorough  in- 
vestigation of  the  Tash  home  before  he  set  a  line  on  paper,  and  also  that  the 
story  was  published  after  it  had  been  carefully  revised  six  times.  In  its  present 
form  it  is  a  newspaper  classic,  possessed  of  genuine  heart-interest. 

AN  ENTOMBED   MINER  RESCUED  FROM  ROCK-BOUND 

PRISON 

A 
AID   FOR  ENTOMBED  MAN 

Centralia,  Pa.,  Sept.  30.  —  Forty  men  are  working  night  and  day 
in  an  effort  to  rescue  Thomas  Toshesky,  who  has  been  entombed  four 
days  in  the  mammoth  vein  of  the  Continental  Mine  here.  Food  was  given 
to  the  miner  in  his  prison  today  by  means  of  a  two-inch  gas  pipe,  forced 
through  an  opening  made  by  a  diamond  drill.  Clothing  was  afterward 
sent  through  the  pipe  to  the  prisoner. 

Fred  M.  Chase,  general  manager  of  the  Lehigh  Valley  Company,  went 
to  the  mine  today.  When  he  learned  that  the  work  of  rescue  was  ex- 
ceedingly dangerous  because  of  falls  and  the  "  running  "  of  pillars,  he 
directed  that  the  men  tunnel  through  solid  rock  to  the  mine  prison  of 
Toshesky.  Mr.  Chase  sent  to  Mount  Carmel  for  a  diamond  drill  and 
rushed  it  to  the  Continental  Mine  in  a  special  train. 


82  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

After  hours  of  tedious  labor,  a  hole,  a  little  more  than  2  inches  in 
diameter,  was  drilled  into  the  prison  of  Toshcsky  and  into  this  hole 
was  forced  a  two-inch  gas  pipe. 

An  electric  wire  was  then  run  into  the  prison,  and  doctors  fed  liquid 
food  to  the  miner.  Beef  broth  was  poured  through  the  pipe.  Toshesky, 
with  his  mouth  at  the  lower  end,  begged  for  more  food,  which  the  doc- 
tors feared  to  give  him.  Mis  clothing  wet  from  the  dampness,  the  en- 
tombed miner  complained  bitterly  of  being  cold.  A  blanket  was  rolled 
tightly  and  the  outside  of  it  greased.  A  cord  was  then  dropped  through 
the  pipe  to  Toshesky.  Jjy  pulling  it  he  soon  had  the  blanket  for  a 
covering.    Shirts,  socks  and  other  garments  followed. 

Toshesky  talked  with  several  friends  during  the  day.  His  wife  was 
lowered  into  the  mine  tonight  and  permitted  to  shout  words  of  encour- 
agement to  her  husband  through  the  pipe. 

With  men  working  continuously  in  driving  through  the  solid  rock,  it 
is  thought  Toshesky  will  be  freed  from  his  mine  prison  Friday  morning, 
if  he  still  lives.  Mine  officials  say  he  cannot  be  reached  before  that  time. 
It  is  feared  that  another  cave-in  may  come  in  the  interval,  and  that  the 
imprisoned  miner  will  be  crushed. 

Toshesky  exhibits  great  nerve  and  is  confident  he  will  soon  be  back 
with  family  and  friends. 

"  Tell  my  family  not  to  worry  too  much,"  he  shouted  through  the  pipe 
this  evening.  "  I  am  in  fairly  good  condition.  Since  I  got  several  bottles 
of  milk  and  whipped  eggs,  I  feel  much  stronger  and  more  contented. 
I  had  a  long  sleep  after  satisfying  my  hunger  and  thirst,  and  feel  certain 
I  '11  be  rescued  before  another  fall  of  top  rock  and  coal.  Sometimes  I 
imagine  the  whole  roof  of  the  breast  is  about  to  drop  on  my  head."  — 
New  York  Times 

B 
ENTOMBED   MINER   FRANTIC 

WiLKESBARRE,  Pa.,  Oct.  I.  —  From  his  prison  in  the  Continental  Mine 
of  the  Lehigh  Valley  Company,  at  Centralia,  Pa.,  Thomas  Toshesky,  en- 
tombed since  last  Friday,  today  begged  the  forty  men  who  are  striving 
to  reach  him  to  hurry  their  operations,  saying  that  the  roof  of  his  prison 
was  falling  and  that  any  minute  might  be  his  last. 

An  emergency  hospital  has  been  built  near  the  scene  of  the  attempted 
rescue.    General  Manager  Fred  M.  Chase  has  a  force  of  doctors  and 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  83 

first-aid  men  on  hand.  Mining  engineers  and  expert  miners  are  also 
on  the  scene. 

Toshesky  received  food  today  through  the  two-inch  pipe  that  was 
forced  through  8  feet  of  solid  rock  to  his  prison.  Doctors  gave  him 
food  as  often  as  he  asked  it. 

Late  in  the  day  he  became  much  alarmed  by  the  falling  of  coal  around 
him,  and  shouted  through  the  pipe  like  a  madman.  Members  of  the 
rescue  party  sent  back  words  of  encouragement.  To  ease  the  frantic 
miner,  three  of  his  little  children  were  taken  into  the  mine  and  allowed 
to  talk  to  their  father.  The  voices  of  his  children  soon  quieted  him,  and 
the  listeners  were  able  to  detect  sobs  from  his  prison.  He  recovered  his 
courage  quickly  and  informed  his  friends  that  he  would  wait  patiently 
the  arrival  of  his  rescuers. 

Some  fear  has  been  entertained  that  the  long  confinement  may  make 
Toshesky  a  raving  maniac.  While  a  hammock  and  a  blanket  have  been 
sent  into  his  prison,  he  cannot  sleep.  Doctors  urged  him  today  to  work 
and  exercise,  thinking  he  might  become  tired  and  drop  off  to  sleep. 

The  rescuers  have  33  feet  of  solid  rock  to  remove  before  they  can 
reach  Toshesky.  It  will  be  impossible  to  pierce  this  before  late  to- 
morrow night.  If  he  is  not  buried  by  a  fall  of  coal  before  Thursday 
night,  General  Manager  Chase  is  sure  that  the  men  will  save  him.  — 
New  York  Times 


HARD  ROCK  DELAYS  RESCUE 

WiLKESBARRE,  Pa.,  Oct.  2.  —  Thomas  Toshesky,  who  has  been  en- 
tombed in  the  Continental  Mine  at  Centralia  for  the  last  seven  days, 
cannot  be  rescued  before  Friday  night.  F.  M.  Chase,  general  manager 
of  the  Lehigh  Valley  Coal  Company,  today  expressed  the  fear  that  the 
man  might  not  be  released  before  Saturday.  Twenty  feet  of  solid  rock 
and  coal  separate  the  prisoner  from  freedom.  Because  the  rescue  party 
can  use  no  explosives,  progress  is  slow  and  the  work  tedious.  A  power- 
ful air  compressor,  capable  of  doing  the  work  of  six  men,  was  installed 
in  the  heading  today. 

General  Manager  Chase  has  drafted  one  hundred  men  for  service.  Fifty 
of  these  are  kept  at  work  in  relays,  picking  and  shoveling  their  way  to  the 
prison  of  the  miner.  A  stratum  of  very  hard  rock  was  encountered 
today,  and  the  rescue  party  made  little  headway. 


84  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Toshesky  received  solid  and  liquid  food  through  the  gas  pipe  which 
connects  him  with  the  outer  world.  Dry  clothing  was  sent  to  him.  He 
told  the  doctors  he  was  able  to  get  exercise  by  picking  and  digging  at  the 
rock  with  some  of  the  tools  found  in  his  prison.  The  roof  of  his  chamber 
is  dangerous.  Toshesky,  as  well  as  the  rescuers,  realizes  that  there  is 
possibility  of  another  fall  at  any  time,  which  may  result  in  his  death. 

Late  today  the  prisoner  said  he  had  dug  a  niche  about  3  feet  in 
depth  in  the  mine.    Lie  was  told  to  use  this  for  shelter  if  the  roof  caved  in. 

Mrs.  Toshesky  was  again  taken  into  the  mine  today  and  talked  with 
her  husband  through  the  pipe.  When  the  entombed  miner  heard  her 
voice  he  shouted  :  "  I  am  well,  Mary.  How  are  the  children  .-'  Tell  them 
I  will  be  home  before  the  week  is  over." 

I'hen  he  burst  into  tears  and  for  several  minutes  shouted  unintelligible 
words  through  the  gas  pipe.  Before  Mrs.  Toshesky  was  taken  to  the 
surface  he  was  quieted. 

The  rescue  party  expected  to  reach  Toshesky  late  tonight,  but  the 
hard  rock  encountered  makes  this  impossible.  If  the  remaining  20  feet 
is  rock  equally  hard,  he  cannot  be  reached  before  Saturday.  —  New 
York  Times 

D 
BURIED  MINER  OUT  TODAY 

WiLKESBARRE,  Pa.,  Oct.  3.  —  Thomas  Toshesky,  who  has  been  im- 
prisoned in  the  Continental  Mine  at  Centralia  for  the  last  eight  days,  will 
be  returned  to  his  wife  and  three  children  by  morning.  This  was  the 
news  that  came  from  the  mine  at  9  o'clock  tonight,  when  the  fifty  res- 
cuers, who  have  been  working  with  pick  and  shovel  throughout  the  day, 
announced  that  less  than  7  feet  of  solid  coal  separated  them  from 
the  miner.  Digging  has  been  tedious  because  of  the  impeding  rock,  and 
the  engineers  in  charge  of  the  operations  have  proceeded  cautiously  as 
they  came  within  a  short  distance  of  the  prisoner's  tomb. 

Toshesky  has  been  told  that  he  will  be  rescued  within  a  short  time, 
but  he  has  not  been  informed  that  the  rescuers  are  only  a  short  distance 
away.  It  was  feared  that  if  he  knew  just  how  near  they  were  he  would 
become  overanxious  and  perhaps  do  something  which  might  make  the 
work  in  vain. 

General  Manager  F.  M.  Chase  was  at  the  mine  today  and  conversed 
with   Toshesky   several   times.     The  prisoner  received  what  food  he 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  85 

demanded,  and  while  lie  continually  asks  for  his  wife  and  children,  he 
has  been  much  quieter  today  than  at  any  time  since  his  imprisonment. 
At  the  rate  the  rescuers  are  going  they  may  reach  him  soon  after 
midnight.  It  may  be  as  late  as  6  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but  all  are  con- 
vinced that  Toshesky  will  be  home  in  time  for  breakfast  with  his  family. 
—  New  York  Times 


MINE  CAPTIVE  FREE-SAYS  HE  IS  "BULLY" 

Mahony  City,  Pa.,  Oct.  4. —  Thomas  Toshesky,  the  coal  miner 
who  had  been  held  prison-bound  in  a  pocket  in  the  Continental  Mine  for 
nine  days,  in  which  period  he  was  fed  through  a  two-inch  pipe,  was 
rescued  at  7.15  o'clock  this  morning  when  a  pillar  of  coal  52  feet 
thick  was  penetrated  by  a  big  gang  of  diggers.  His  wife  and  scores  of 
friends,  knowing  his  release  was  soon  to  be  achieved,  gathered  early  last 
night  at  the  head  of  the  Continental  slope  and  stayed  there  all  night. 
When  the  miner  was  raised  to  the  surface,  he  was  embraced  by  his  wife, 
his  four  children  and  many  of  his  friends.  He  was  hurried  in  an  auto- 
mobile by  mine  officials  to  his  home.    His  recovery  is  certain. 

Though  he  had  been  buried  once  before  for  two  days  in  the  Mid  Val- 
ley Mine,  that  experience,  Toshesky  asserted,  was  nothing  to  his  week 
and  two  days  in  the  depths  of  the  Continental.  He  will  dine  with  his 
family  tomorrow.  It  will  be  the  first  solid  meal  for  him  in  ten  days, 
milk  having  been  his  diet  while  underground. 

Centralia  gave  the  miner  a  big  reception,  with  brass  bands  and 
tooting  horns. 

'"  I  thought  I  would  sweat  blood,"  said  the  rescued  man  tonight. 
"  Rats  ran  over  me  and  the  drippings  from  the  cave  roof  fell  on  me. 
The  noise  of  the  rescuers'  picks  cheered  me  a  lot.  I  prayed  every  day 
to  get  out,  lying  face  down  on  the  wet  ground,  and  at  last  daylight 
came.  The  drill  broke  through  to  my  cave,  and  food  and  clothes  came 
next.  The  air  was  good,  and  the  blankets  forced  through  the  tube  kept 
me  warm. 

"  At  times  I  lost  all  hope,  but  when  my  wife,  Mary,  talked  to  me 
through  the  tube  my  only  thought  was  that  I  w'ould  soon  be  home  again." 

Toshesky  said  when  he  was  closed  in  he  thought  that  he  would  be 
crushed  to  death,  as  several  thousand  w^agonloads  of  coal  piled  toward 
him  from  the  bottom  of  the  breast.    Two  breasts  of  coal  ran  away. 


86  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  My  dinner  bucket  and  coat  at  the  bottom  of  the  breast  were  lost  as 
the  coal  rushed  by,"  the  miner  related.  "  I  had  all  my  mine  tools  with 
me,  and  my  lamp  was  burning.  I  had  a  pint  of  oil  in  a  can  by  my  side. 
I  was  in  a  space  seven  by  1 5  feet. 

"  From  Friday  until  Tuesday  I  was  without  anything  to  eat  or  drink, 
and  on  the  last  day  my  oil  gave  out.  I  was  in  darkness.  It  was  a  hard 
time  from  then  on  until  the  rescuers  drove  the  bore  through.  After  I 
got  several  drinks  of  eggnog,  I  felt  like  a  new  man. 

"  This  will  be  a  great  Sunday  for  me,"  he  added.  "  I  will  see  two  of 
m\'  children  baptized  in  church.  The  only  thing  I  am  sorry  about  is  that 
my  wife  is  ill  from  the  excitement  she  felt  when  she  saw  me  safe.  I  '11 
never  go  in  another  coal  mine  again.  On  top  of  the  ground  for  Tom 
Toshesky  from  now  on.    Fresh  air  and  sunlight  for  me !  " 

The  news  that  the  rescue  had  been  made  was  given  the  watchers  out- 
side when  a  miner  crawled  to  the  tunnel  mouth  and  called  to  the  top  of 
the  pit  for  blankets  and  hot  water.  At  7.38  o'clock  a  file  of  men  appeared 
from  the  heading.  Toshesky  came  from  the  hole  with  a  gray  blanket 
wrapped  about  his  shoulders.  Back  of  him  was  a  miner,  with  hands  up- 
raised ready  to  assist  him,  but  the  rescued  man  walked  with  astonishing 
agility.  When  he  stepped  on  the  wooden  platform  just  outside  the  narrow 
tunnel  and  was  able  to  stand  upright  again,  he  paused  for  an  instant 
and  looked  up.  His  cap  was  on  his  head  when  he  crawled  through  the 
opening  of  the  tunnel  and  greeted  his  rescuers.  The  lamp  on  his  cap 
flickered  feebly. 

The  most  notable  thing  about  the  miner  was  a  pallor  which  showed 
through  the  grime  on  his  face. 

He  climbed  the  path  to  the  rim  of  the  pit  almost  unaided.  A  stretcher 
had  been  taken  to  the  foot,  and  there  were  plenty  of  willing  hands  to 
carry  him,  but  he  would  not  permit  it.  Halfway  up  the  pit  Toshesky 
stopped  and  posed  for  a  photograph  with  Dr.  H.  G.  Dortner,  who  had 
been  in  almost  constant  touch  with  him  since  communication  was  estab- 
lished Tuesday  night,  and  to  whom  is  largely  due  the  good  health  of 
the  miner. 

"  Hello !  "  said  the  rescued  man  to  ever^'body  who  spoke  to  him. 
Asked  how  he  felt,  he  always  answered,  "  Bully  1  " 

Just  before  the  tunnel  was  enlarged  sufficiently  to  permit  the  prisoner's 
passage,  miners  engaged  in  the  rescue  work  were  chatting  with  him. 
One  asked  what  he  was  doing. 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  87 

"  I'm  getting  ready  to  move,"  came  the  answer.  "  This  is  no  board- 
ing house.  No  good  bed,  no  spring,  no  good  boarding-missus." — New 
York  Times 

Editor's  Note.  This  series  of  stories  does  not  grip  the  reader's  attention 
and  sympathy  because  the  man  is  prominent  or  because  of  his  unique  predica- 
ment. He  is  only  a  miner  of  an  alien  race,  but  he  has  been  caught  in  a  fall  of 
rock  and  is  trying  desperately  to  keep  alive  the  spark  of  life  until  his  rescuers 
are  able  to  shatter  the  walls  of  his  prison.  The  man's  brave  struggle  to  live 
and  the  heroic  work  of  forty  men,  bent  on  saving  him,  win  admiration  and 
prompt  a  prayer  for  deliverance.  Courage  always  thrills.  Imagination  pictures 
him  in  a  dark  pocket,  close  to  the  two-inch  pipe,  eagerly  waiting  the  coming  of 
daylight  and  succor.  Every  detail  added  from  day  to  day,  the  long  suspense 
and  the  piling  up  of  obstacles  in  the  path  of  the  rescuers,  are  grouped  here 
with  simple  directness.  The  climax  is  reached  when  the  last  ledge  of  rock  has 
been  pierced  and  Toshesky  is  free  and  safe.  The  introduction  of  the  children 
and  the  wife,  his  sententious  "  Bully !  "  all  add  to  the  story's  spell. 

The  tale  may  be  contrasted  with  Lindsey  Denison's  "  A  Fight  for  a  Life," 
in  which  Bill  Hoar,  a  master  diver,  dies  a  hero  in  the  mouth  of  a  pipe  62  feet 
under  water,  despite  all  efforts  to  rescue  him  (see  "  Essentials  in  Journalism  "). 

Attention  is  called  to  the  leads  in  all  of  the  stories  printed.  The  facts  of 
Toshesky's  plight  are  reviewed  for  the  benefit  of  readers  who  have  not  read 
the  preceding  stories.  Each  introduction  back-tracks  and  gathers  up  details 
necessary  to  a  complete  knowledge  of  the  situation. 

No  specific  passages  need  be  pointed  out  as  illustrations  of  "  human  interest." 
The  most  cursory  reading  will  reveal  them. 


GIRL  LEAPS  WITH   RODMAN   LAW  OFF  THE 
WILLIAMSBURG  BRIDGE 

Don't  stop  reading  just  because  it 's  all  in  the  first  paragraph  that 
Rodman  Law  and  Miss  Constance  D.  J.  Bennett  parachuted  off  the 
Williamsburg  Bridge  into  the  East  River  at  i.io  o'clock  yesterday 
afternoon. 

What  if  the  first  thing  Miss  Bennett,  who  is  only  nineteen,  said  to  Mrs. 
Law  when  she  was  hauled  out  of  the  water  was,  "  Did  you  remember 
to  bring  my  powder  puff,  dear  ?  "  That  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  she 
is  the  first  and  only  feminine  Steve  Brodie. 

No  matter  if  Rodman  Law  does  jump  off  bridges,  climb  skyscrapers 
and  drop  from  aeroplanes  as  frequently  as  the  ordinary  mortal  goes  to 


88  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

the  theater,  the  water  was  cold,  and  he  used  an  old  parachute  that  has 
failed  to  work  so  many  times  that  he  calls  it  "'  The  Outlaw."' 

Take  comfort  from  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Rodman  Law  fidgeted  around 
on  the  tug  C.  P.  Raymond,  which  hovered  under  the  bridge,  and  said 
every  five  minutes  for  two  solid  hours  : 

"  Heavens !  I  would  feel  better  if  the  life  insurance  companies  would 
take  a  chance  on  Rod." 

Not  only  these  things,  but  Miss  Bennett  docs  n't  swim,  never  saw  a 
parachute  till  the  day  before  yesterday  and  nearly  drowned  before  Law 
dived  for  her  and  then  supported  her  till  life  preservers  were  tossed 
to  him  from  the  Rayrnond.  At  that,  the  swift  outgoing  tide  hauled  the 
damp  and  clinging  folds  of  the  parachute  over  Miss  Bennett's  blond 
curls,  so  that  those  on  the  tug  cried  out  that  she  was  drowned. 

That  is,  ever)-body  but  the  moving-picture  photographers,  who  were 
cranking  madly  at  their  machines  as  Law  and  Miss  Bennett  struggled  in 
the  water.    They  shouted  : 

"  Hold  that  pose  a  minute  for  heaven's  sake !  " 

And  then  they  were  mad  because  Law  and  Miss  Bennett  did  n't 
kiss  each  other  in  just  the  way  that  had  been  marked  out  for  them 
in  the  moving-picture  scenario.  They  were  n't  appeased  a  bit  when 
Law  said : 

"  Two  actors  can't  kiss  with  the  same  abandon  when  they  are  full 
of  East  River." 

They  remarked  that  there  was  no  business  of  inhaling  the  river  in 
Law's  contract. 

Before  this  story  is  really  started  it  might  be  w^ell  to  mention  that  Law 
had  been  refused  permission  to  jump  by  the  Mayor  and  the  Commis- 
sioner of  Bridges.  He  had  replied  that  he  would  jump  anyway.  And,  in 
spite  of  extra  police  precaution,  he  did  —  for  the  «th  time. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  commonplace  —  or  more  interesting 
—  than  the  scene  in  the  Dalzell  Towing  Company's  ofBce  at  No.  71 
South  street  at  8.30  o'clock  yesterday  morning  when  Law  was  being 
dressed  by  Mrs.  Law  for  his  "act." 

Law  groaned  when  his  wife  pulled  his  jersey  over  his  head. 

"  That 's  nothing,"  she  said.  "  That 's  where  his  neck  was  dislo- 
cated that  time  he  dropped  from  an  aeroplane,  when  he  made  that 
new  record." 

He  sighed  when  she  buckled  his  canvas  armor  about  him. 


1 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  89 

*'  Huh  1  "  said  Mrs.  Law.  "  That 's  either  his  broken  rib,  or  his 
broken  shoulder  blade,  or  the  place  where  the  horse  kicked  him  when 
he  horse-jumped  into  Ausable  Chasm  last  week." 

He  gasped  when  he  pulled  on  his  heavy  canvas  breeches. 

"  And  that,"  explained  his  wife,  "  is  just  because  he  sprained  his  hip 
that  time  dropping  from  an  aeroplane  over  in  Jersey." 

Law  squirmed  when  his  wife  commenced  to  sew  the  canvas  jacket 
about  him. 

"  Those  are  bruises  too  numerous  to  mention,"  said  Mrs.  Law.  "  He 
has  dived  and  jumped  and  swam  and  climbed  and  dropped  and  soared 
and  bicycled  and  been  blown  up  so  often  that  nobody,  not  even  his  wife, 
could  be  expected  to  keep  track  of  events  by  the  marks  on  his  body." 

And  it  was  interesting  to  note  that  later  neither  Mrs.  Law  nor  Law 
himself  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  a  deep  gash  under  his  right  arm, 
which  resulted  from  his  plunge  from  the  bridge. 

"  No  bones  broken,"  they  exclaimed  together.  "  Was  n't  it  a  wonder- 
fully successful  '  act ' !  " 

During  the  time  that  he  was  preparing,  Law  smoked  twenty  cigar- 
ettes. He  smoked  as  many  more  between  the  time  that  he  left  the  tug 
in  his  taxi  with  its  limousine  (for  Miss  Bennett)  and  moving-picture  van 
(for  the  moving-picture  company)  convoy,  at  Pier  No.  1 1 ,  and  the  time 
he  dropped  from  the  bridge  rail. 

Just  before  the  automobiles  left  the  tug  Miss  Bennett  said : 

"  Well,  I  may  never  come  back.  But  I  should  worry !  Take  it  from 
me,  if  you  stick  to  Rodman  you  're  sure  of  a  thrill  anyway." 

"  Too  many  of  them,"  replied  Mrs.  Law.  "  There  is  Billy,  he  's  three, 
and  Kathryn,  she  's  six.  No  life-insurance  companies  will  take  a  chance 
on  Rod.    Where  would  we  be  if  anything  happened  to  him .'' 

"  Anyway,  he  has  promised  me  that  this  will  be  the  last  stunt  he 
will  try.  He  's  been  a  sailor,  a  circus  rider,  a  detective,  a  steeple  jack,  a 
sand  hog,  an  aviator  and  a  general  darned  fool." 

"  Darned  fool  is  my  middle  name,"  said  her  husband,  grinning. 

After  that  the  tug,  in  command  of  Capt.  Al  Bennett,  with  a  reporter 
from  the  World  as  the  only  newspaper  man  aboard,  and  a  number  of 
Law's  friends,  steamed  up  to  Williamsburg  Bridge.  It  waited  there 
for  two  hours. 

During  those  two  hours  the  party  on  the  tug  worried  about  the  police, 
the  weather,  Law's  state  of  mind,  Miss  Bennett's  state  of  mind  and  the 


90  '1-\1'1CAL  NEWSPAPER   STORIES 

courage  of  the  chauffeurs.  It  was  interesting  to  note  that  nobody 
suggested  that  either  Law  or  Miss  Bennett  had  got  cold  feet. 

"  Huh  !  They  'd  do  a  '  Brodie  '  off  the  Alps,"  was  the  general  verdict. 

At  12.40  those  on  the  tug  became  excited  when  the  limousine  and  the 
yellow  taxi  appeared  high  and  dim  on  the  bridge.  They  were  identified 
positively  with  the  aid  of  field  glasses.  But,  without  pause,  they  kept  on 
to  the  Brooklyn  side. 

At  1.05  they  appeared  again.  At  1.08  they  stopped  in  the  center  of 
the  structure,  1 5  7  feet  above  the  surface  of  the  water.  Behind  them  for 
half  the  length  of  the  bridge  traffic  came  to  a  halt. 

Through  the  glasses  from  the  tug  Law  could  be  discerned.  Grinning 
broadly,  a  cigarette  tucked  between  his  lips,  he  threw  a  leg  over  the  rail 
and  started  to  arrange  his  parachute.  Miss  Bennett  smiled  back  at  him. 
At  I. ID  exactly  he  nodded,  said  something,  and  Miss  Bennett  shot 
downward.  Her  parachute  opened  50  feet  below  the  bridge  and,  though 
easing  her  downward  flight,  she  plunged  into  the  river. 

A  few  seconds  later  Law  let  go.  His  old  parachute  failed  to  work 
properly.  It  did  n't  open  till  his  feet  almost  touched  the  water.  Then,  with 
a  tremendous  flop,  it  spread.   He  snapped  into  the  river  and  disappeared. 

Miss  Bennett  was  under  water  when  Law  regained  the  surface.  With 
a  few  powerful  strokes  he  reached  her  floating  parachute  and  dived. 
When  he  appeared  again  he  held  Miss  Bennett's  neck  in  his  clenched 
arm.  Before  the  tug  could  reach  them  her  head  had  ducked  under  the 
wet  folds  of  the  parachute.  A  moment  later  both  of  them  had  been 
engulfed  in  the  parachutes.    Neither  was  visible. 

Law,  fighting  strongly,  re-emerged  in  time  to  grab  a  life  preserver 
attached  to  a  line.  He  hung  on  while  the  tug's  momentum  twitched  and 
jerked  him  and  his  inert  burden  through  the  tide  rips.  A  second  and 
they  had  both  been  hauled  aboard,  where  steaming  coffee  and  dry  clothes 
were  waiting. 

"  The  worst  part  of  it  was  balancing  on  that  five-inch  rail,"  said  Miss 
Bennett  afterward.    "I'm  no  tight-rope  walker." 

"  Remember  that  Miss  Bennett  beat  me  to  it,  and  is  the  first  woman 
to  jump  off  one  of  the  Brooklyn  bridges,"  said  Law. 

"  My  husband  has  promised  never  to  risk  his  life  again,"  Mrs.  Law 
declared.  "  This  is  his  last  appearance." 

Law,  battered,  but  smiling,  winked  one  eye. —  Donald  H.  Clarke, 
in  New  York  World 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  91 

Editor's  Note.  A  peep  behind  the  scenes  is  always  alluring,  and  it  is  this 
fact  that  makes  the  Rodman  Law  story  readable.  The  statement  in  the  lead 
that  the  man  and  woman  "  parachuted  "  instead  of  "  jumped  "  arouses  suspicion 
that  this  is  not  a  suicide  pact. 

The  spectacular  color  of  the  incident  in  itself  adds  interest,  as  does  the  par- 
ticipation of  a  woman  in  this  daring  episode  for  a  moving-picture  film.  The 
mention  of  the  powder  puff,  just  after  a  jump  of  157  feet,  brings  a  contrast  of 
courage  and  feminine  vanity,  always  interesting.  Then  the  leisurely  gait  in 
which  the  story  proceeds,  the  mingling  of  matter-of-fact  details  of  an  actor's 
work  with  the  thrilling  chances  which  the  professional  jumper  takes,  contribute 
much  to  the  intimate  realism  of  the  tale. 


STORIES  ABOUT  CHILDREN 


TRIPLETS,  ALL  THREE  GIRLS 

Old  Mr.  Stork  was  a  trifle  belated  in  delivering  his  Christmas  gift  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  E.  Borden  yesterday,  but  he  had  a  good  excuse. 
Only  infrequently  in  his  lorig  and  varied  career  as  an  aviator  has  his  pas- 
senger-carrying ability  been  so  sorely  taxed  as  in  his  flight  to  their  home  at 
224  Olive  street.  Consequently,  he  can't  be  blamed  for  not  getting  there 
until  four  and  a  half  hours  past  Christmas  with  three  little  Miss  Bordens, 

There  is  no  danger  of  the  triply  proud  father  registering  a  kick  on 
his  tardiness,  and  Mrs.  Borden  is  content.  Virginia,  Vivian  and  Vesta, 
too,  apparently  are  satisfied.  Little  two-year-old  Dolores  is  the  only  one 
who  objects,  but  her  sudden  jump  from  the  baby  of  the  family  to  the 
fourth  from  the  youngest  has  made  her  prejudiced. 

The  three  Misses  Borden  deigned  to  receive  a  visitor  last  night.  Two 
of  them  took  little  pains  to  conceal  the  fact  that  their  first  "  at  home  " 
had  been  rather  wearisome.  They  slept  unconcernedly  throughout  the 
interview.  Miss  Virginia,  being  thirty  minutes  older,  finally  consented 
to  speak  for  her  sisters.  She  considered  it  rather  a  bother,  though,  and 
made  it  most  obvious  that  no  amount  of  interesting  conversation  could 
quite  reconcile  her  to  a  long  interview. 

It  could  be  seen  that  the  talk  embarrassed  her.  And  finally  she, 
too,  begged  to  be  excused  and  retired  to  the  crib  that  already  held  her 
two  sisters. 


92  'I'VI'ICAL  XKWSrAl'KR   STORIPIS 

Mrs.  Borden  was  more  communicative. 

"  Yes,  it  does  seem  that  the  stork  and  Santa  ('laus  both  did  their  share," 
Mrs.  Borden  admitted,  as  she  rose  on  her  elbow  and  watched  smilingly 
the  three  little  bundles  in  the  crib.  "  There  can't  be  any  complaint  about 
race  suicide  in  this  house." 

"  What  are  their  names  ?  "  was  asked. 

"  Let 's  see,"  she  said.  "  There  has  been  so  much  going  on  around 
here  I  've  hardly  had  time  to  think  about  the  names  we  gave  them.  Oh, 
yes,  Virginia,  Vivian  and  —  well,  it 's  funny  I  can't  think  of  the  other." 

"  It 's  Vesta,  mamma,"  spoke  up  five-year-old  Nadine. 

"  So  it  is,"  nodded  Ivlrs.  Borden,  "  Virginia,  Vivian  and  Vesta.  Vir- 
ginia 's  the  oldest.  She  was  born  at  4.30  this  morning.  Vivian  w'as  born 
at  5  o'clock  and  Vesta  at  5.15.  You  can't  tell  them  apart  to  save  your 
life,  so  we  tied  a  red  ribbon  on  Virginia,  a  while  one  on  Vivian  and  a 
blue  one  on  Vesta." 

Nadine  had  been  looking  intently  at  her  three  new  sisters  for  several 
minutes.    Now  she  turned  and  announced  : 

"  They  don't  look  like  babies  to  me.    They  look  like  litde  dolls." 

And  so  they  did.  Virginia  and  Vivian  weigh  four  and  a  half  pounds 
each,  and  Vesta  weighs  three  pounds  and  three  quarters.  All  of  them 
are  perfecdy  formed  and,  according  to  Dr.  Park  L.  McDonald,  are  the 
healthiest  triplets  he  has  ever  seen.  Mr.  Borden  is  a  city  salesman  for 
the  Burnham-Munger-Root  Dry  Goods  Company.  He  has  been  married 
eleven  years. 

"  How  many  children  have  you  ? "  Mrs.  Borden  was  asked. 

"  Three,"  she  replied.  "  No,  I  beg  your  pardon,  six  now.  Eight  years 
ago  we  had  twin  boys,  but  they  died.  We  have  a  boy.  Park,  seven  years 
old,  and  Nadine  and  Dolores. 

"  I  don't  know  how  we  are  going  to  tell  the  babies  apart.  We  '11  either 
have  to  tattoo  their  names  on  them  or  get  them  little  engraved  bracelets. 
I  can't  tell  which  is  which." 

"  Why,  I  can,"  the  nurse  said  with  a  superior  air.  "  I  know  them 
already." 

"  Which  one  is  that  you  're  holding  ?  "  somebody  asked. 

"  Why,  this  is  Vesta,  the  smallest  one,"  she  said.  "  Can't  you  see  ? 
Look,  I  '11  show  you  the  blue  ribbon  on  her  wrist." 

Everybody  watched  carefully  while  the  wrappings  of  soft  cloth  were 
unwound  from  the  tiny  form.   Each  one  peered  to  catch  the  first  glimpse 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  93 

of  the  blue  ribbon.  At  last  a  pink,  delicate  little  arm  was  exposed. 
Around  the  wrinkled  little  wrist  —  no  bigger  than  one's  thumb  —  was 
the  ribbon. 

It  was  red. —  Harlan  Thompson,  in  Kansas  City  Star 

B 

TRIPLETS  GAIN  A  POUND 

One  whole  pound  gained  is  the  record  which  each  of  the  Christmas 
triplets  at  the  home  of  James  E.  Borden  has  set  for  the  first  week  of 
her  existence. 

The  weight  was  taken  Saturday,  just  a  week  after  Santa  Glaus  knocked 
tardily  at  the  door  of  the  Borden  home,  224  Olive  street,  and  left  Vir- 
ginia, Vivian  and  Vesta  as  a  Christmas  present.  Vesta,  who  was  the  last 
to  arrive,  weighed  43  pounds  Saturday,  and  each  of  the  others  tipped  the 
scales  at  5^^  pounds.    This  was  a  gain  of  i  pound  for  each. 

Yesterday,  just  as  on  the  day  of  their  birth,  the  three  triplets  looked 
the  same.  The  names  Virginia,  Vivian  and  Vesta  were  meaningless 
except  for  the  rings  attached  by  ribbons  to  each  of  the  three  little  wrists. 
To  preserve  the  history  of  the  triplets  in  its  early  stages,  a  red  ribbon 
was  at  first  tied  to  the  wrist  of  Virginia,  the  first  born,  to  that  of  Vivian 
a  white  one  and  to  Vesta's  wrist  a  blue  one.  Now  rings  with  sets  to  match 
the  colors  of  the  ribbons  are  attached  to  the  babies'  wrists,  and  they  will 
stay  there  until  the  tiny  fingers  have  grown  to  fill  the  rings.  Then  the 
mother  hopes  she  will  be  able  to  find  something  different  in  the  faces  to 
tell  them  apart.  In  the  meantime  they  will  be  known  collectively  as  the 
red,  white  and  blue  babies. 

To  avoid  the  annoyance  of  referring  to  the  rings  so  often,  the  babies 
are  at  present  kept  in  rotation  in  bed,  with  Vesta,  the  youngest  of  the 
three,  next  her  mother. 

Some  days  ago  the  father  wondered  what  he  would  do  when  all  three 
babies  cried  at  once.  Yesterday  a  solution  was  offered.  A  friend  came 
and  wanted  to  take  one  third  of  the  little  flock  away,  but  Mr.  Borden's 
hands  went  deeper  into  his  pockets,  and  he  shook  his  head.  Even  little 
envious  Dolores,  the  two-year-old  sister,  was  unwilling. 

Many  come  to  see  the  triplets  and  everyone  wishes  to  lift  them  from 
the  bed,  but  this  privilege  is  reserved  for  grandma  and  the  nurse. — 
Harlan  Thompson,  in  Kansas  City  Star 


94  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIP:S 

TWO   RUNAWAY  MAIDS  ARE   HOME 

Two  little  girls  did  n't  like  school  at  all.  One  was  twelve  years  old 
and  the  other  fourteen.  Their  combined  wisdom,  derived  by  putting 
two  heads  together,  decided  it  would  be  ever  so  nice  to  run  away  from 
hateful  lessons  and  live  together  —  oh,  somewhere  —  in  bachelor  maid 
quarters.  Then  they  could  work  —  oh,  somewhere  —  and  be  inde- 
pendent. 

The  youthful  sages  are  Estelle  Gerber,  fourteen,  4307  Madison  avenue, 
and  Mona  Hankins,  twelve,  4020  Penn  street,  pupils  in  the  sixth  grade  at 
the  Allen  School.    They  ran  away  from  their  homes  Saturday  afternoon. 

For  Estelle,  the  tale  started  when  a  pigtail  became  two  curls. 

The  division  was  accomplished  by  Mamma  Gerber  and  a  curling 
iron,  and  the  curls  were  draped  becomingly  over  the  shell-pink  ears  of 
Daughter  Estelle.  Mamma  Gerber  liked  the  curls.  Estelle  liked  the 
curls.  Other  people  liked  the  curls.  But  the  teachers  did  n't  like  the  curls. 
They  seemed  to  believe  Estelle  had  evolved  them  to  captivate  the 
glances  of  youths.    So  Estelle  cried  and  became  vexed  at  the  teachers. 

Then  she  found  solace  in  Mona,  as  tall  and  pretty  as  she.  Mona 
did  n't  wear  curls,  but  she  did  wear  a  red  and  black  striped  coat,  a  red 
skirt  and  a  red  velvet  hat.  And  Mona,  too,  believed  the  minds  of  the 
teachers  were  turned  against  her. 

The  two  rebels  exercised  their  grievances  until  said  grievances  became 
able-bodied  and  grown  up.  So  they  decided  to  run  away,  and  then  they 
would  n't  have  to  go  to  school  at  all. 

Mona  had  $2  and  Estelle,  forty  cents.  Saturday  and  Sunday  nights 
they  stayed  at  a  rooming  house  on  Woodland  avenue  near  Sixth  street. 
They  first  laid  in  supplies  of  canned  beans,  hamburger  steak,  lard,  bread, 
cheese,  butter  and  crackers.  Then  they  laid  in  stomach  ache.  They 
cried  all  Saturday  night.  This  morning  they  went  to  search  for  new 
quarters.    Later  they  intended  to  hunt  work. 

Of  course,  tearful  parents  told  the  police  just  how  Mona  and  Estelle 
were  dressed  and  what  their  appearance  was.  No  girl  could  remain  un- 
observed under  such  conditions.  At  least,  not  Mona  and  Estelle.  The 
landlady  of  a  rooming  house  at  1910  Independence  avenue,  to  whom 
they  applied  this  morning  for  quarters,  recognized  them  right  away.  She 
asked  them  to  sit  down  in  the  parlor  while  she  prepared  rooms  for 
their  inspection.    Then  she  telephoned  police  headquarters. 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  95 

Mona  and  Estelle  rode  in  state,  tears,  indignation  and  a  police  motor 
car  to  headquarters.  Estelle's  papa  took  her  home  this  morning.  Mona's 
mother  got  her  later.  The  almost  bachelor  maids  held  a  watery  disunion 
ere  Estelle  departed. 

""  We  '11  run  away  again,"  they  pledged  each  other.  "  We  won't  go 
back  to  school." — Katisas  City  Star 

A  LITTLE  GIRL  WENT  EXPLORING 

Adolph  Forger,  of  No.  2021  Anthony  avenue,  the  Bronx,  on  his  way 
home  at  6  o'clock  last  night,  saw  a  little  girl  trudging  along  Westchester 
avenue,  near  Clason  Point  road.  The  girl  was  very  small,  and  the  road 
was  lonely,  so  Forger  asked  her : 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  .-'  " 

"  Just  walkin',"  replied  the  child.  "  My  name  is  Mary  McCarthy,  and 
I  am  six  years  old,  and  I  live  at  218  West  Seventieth  street,  and  my 
mama's  name  is  Mrs,  Catherine  McCarthy,  an'  I  am  jus'  walkin'." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  walking  ?  "  asked  Forger,  astonished. 

"  Since  'leven  o'clock  this  morning." 

"  Where  are  you  walking  to  ?  " 

"  Is  the  North  Pole  an  awful  long  ways  off  ?  "  demanded  Mary. 

Mr.  Forger  took  Mary  to  the  Tremont  Avenue  police  station,  where 
her  mother  called  for  her.  The  police  figure  that  she  walked  about  six 
miles.  —  New  York  Sun 

WILLIE  TRIES  A  HIGH   DIVE 

The  old  saw,  "  Hang  your  clothes  on  a  hickory  limb  and  don't  go 
near  the  water,"  must,  perforce,  be  revised.  It  should  read  "'  and  don't 
go  near  the  bathtub,"  judging  from  the  rather  disastrous  experience  of  a 
young  hopeful  in  Forsythe  avenue,  a  day  or  so  ago.  The  lad's  name  is 
Willie,  but  that  is  a  very  tame  name  for  a  lively  kid.  Willie  had  been  a 
visitor  at  Indianola  park  and  had  viewed  with  much  interest  the  agile 
divers  plowing  up  the  water  in  the  natatorium.  So  home  he  goes  with 
an  Idea,  a  large-sized,  double-jointed  Idea,  that  small  boys  occasionally 
get  into  their  noodles. 

Going  softly  upstairs  Willie  crept  into  the  bathroom  and  turned  on 
the  water  that  fills  the  tub.    He  was  n't  going  to  take  a  bath  (it  was  n'c 


96  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Saturday  night),  no  indeedy,  Willie  was  going  to  essay  a  high  dive.  He 
made  a  pair  of  bathing  trunks  with  an  old  towel,  bordered  with  red,  and 
when  the  white  porcelain  was  quite  full  and  the  water  running  over  the 
rim,  the  youthful  diver  climbed  on  the  edge,  took  two  long  breaths  and 
sprang  headfirst  into  the  improvised  pool. 

A  bloodcurdling  yell  split  the  air,  then  prolonged  whoops  as  a  wet 
urchin  clambered  from  the  tub. 

His  fond  mother  came  marathoning  up  the  stairs  with  pale  cheeks, 
expecting  to  find  somebody  killed.  She  hammered  on  the  bathroom  door 
in  half-frenzied  desperation,  all  the  time  crying  "  Willie  1  Willie  !  " 

When  the  knob  was  turned  she  was  confronted  by  a  blubbering 
youngster,  rubbing  his  eyes  with  his  fist  —  still  in  his  damp  bathing  suit. 

"  What  in  the  world  is  the  matter  with  you  ? "  queried  the  anxious 
mother. 

Willie  renewed  his  boo-hoos. 

"  Why,  why,"  he  gurgled  between  gasps,  "I  —  I —  I  tried  to  dive  jest 
like  the  men  do,  an  —  an  —  I  skinned  my  nose,  an  —  an  —  oh,  I  —  I 
swallered  'bout  a  bushel  of  water.  I  —  I  don't  want  to  do  no  more 
swimmin'." 

Laughing  in  spite  of  herself,  mother  got  the  courtplaster  and  some 
clothes.  —  H.  F.  H.,  in  Ohio  State  Journal 

Editor's  Note.  This  series  of  stories  about  children,  beginning  with  the 
advent  of  Virginia,  Vivian,  and  Vesta,  who  could  not  be  told  apart  in  spite  of 
their  ribbons  of  identification,  and  ending  with  the  misadventures  of  Willie  as 
an  amateur  diver,  should  find  lodgment  in  the  hearts  of  fathers  and  mothers ; 
although  everyone,  young  and  old,  yields  ready  sympathy  to  the  unfolding  idyll 
of  childhood.  In  the  story  of  the  triplets  interest  is  accentuated  by  the  use  of 
conversation  and  by  a  good  appreciation  of  the  element  of  suspense,  although 
babyhood  does  not  require  the  descriptive  talent  of  a  reporter  to  bring  smiles 
and  tears  from  men  and  women.  The  experiences  of  two  runaway  maids  make 
interpretation  or  explanation  superfluous,  while  the  pranks  of  Willie  and  the 
six-mile  trudge  of  the  little  girl  explorer  are  best  appreciated  by  those  who 
remember  their  childhood  or  have  children  of  their  own. 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  97 

GLIMPSES   OF  REAL  LIFE 

SLEEPS  IN  A  CELL;  VIOLIN   IN   HIS  ARMS 

With  his  cherished  violin  clasped  in  his  arms,  Hermann  Miess,  a  Ger- 
man musician,  aged  69,  slept  through  last  night  on  a  hard  bunk  in  one 
of  the  cells  of  the  city  prison.  Although  his  bed  was  poor,  the  old  man's 
face  wore  a  smile  of  content,  for  he  had  not  allowed  himself  to  be  parted 
from  the  one  thing  in  the  world  that  he  loved. 

Miess  either  lost  or  was  robbed  of  a  railway  ticket  to  Springfield  yes- 
terday and  found  himself  a  stranger  in  Columbus  without  money.  He 
walked  the  streets  all  day  and  in  the  early  dusk  of  evening  passed  under 
the  three  suspended  balls  of  a  High  street  pawnbroker's  sign.  He 
frowned  and,  clasping  his  violin  more  tightly  under  his  arm,  hurried  on. 
But  before  long  he  returned  with  reluctant  steps,  and  laying  the  instru- 
ment on  the  pawnbroker's  showcase,  he  seized  the  bill  handed  him  and 
stumbled  through  the  door,  eyes  blinded  with  tears  that  would  not  be 
kept  back. 

Never  before  had  he  passed  a  night  away  from  his  "  liebchen."  Never 
since  his  dying  father  had  put  the  old  instrument  into  his  hands  had  he 
allowed  it  out  of  his  sight  for  an  hour.  It  was  his  only  companion  and, 
as  he  called  it,  his  sweetheart. 

Miess  tried  to  walk  away,  but  his  feet  dragged.  He  turned,  darted 
through  the  door,  seized  the  violin  from  the  hands  of  the  pawnbroker 
and  threw  the  bill  down  on  the  showcase. 

With  his  "  liebchen  "  strained  to  his  breast,  he  tottered  down  to  the 
city  prison  and  asked  for  a  bed.  A  few  kindly  questions  drew  out  his 
whole  story.  The  old  man  had  come  from  Atlanta,  Ga.  In  Springfield, 
to  which  he  was  going,  is  a  daughter-in-law,  who  would  receive  him. 

An  hour  later,  with  a  purse  containing  enough  to  buy  his  ticket  to 
Springfield,  contributed  by  the  officers  who  heard  his  story,  Miess  went 
to  bed  in  a  cell. 

As  the  grated  door  was  closed  he  drew  his  violin  from  its  case.  And 
then  the  inmates  of  that  squalid  place  were  suddenly  quiet.  Coarse  jests, 
ribald  singing  stopped  abruptly,  while  the  high-pitched  laughter  of  a 
drunken  woman  melted  into  quiet  sobs.  For  out  of  the  old  musician's 
cell  stole  a  melody,  sad,  wistful,  yearningly  tender. 

His  '"  liebchen  "  was  talking  to  him. —  H.  F.  H.,  in  Ohio  State  Journal 


98  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

RELIC  OF  A  MEDIEVAL  FEUD  STILL   IN  SHOWCASE 

He  was  a  weazened-faced  little  old  man,  not  overly  cleanly  in  outward 
appearance,  but  with  a  keenly  developed  spirit  of  frugality.  When  a 
reporter  entered  his  low-ceilinged,  musty  little  shop  he  beamed  out 
of  the  darkness  of  the  rear  like  a  moon  befogged. 

Instantly  he  was  alive  with  commercial  interest.  What  would  it  be, 
an  opera  glass,  perhaps,  or  a  pistol  ?  Ah,  such  lovely  pistols !  Carefully 
cleaned  and  renickeled  so  that  they  shone  as  new.  And  so  cheap ! 
"  A  pistol  ?    No  ?    Perhaps  a  watch  ?  " 

His  hands  were  running  over  the  contents  of  a  glass  showcase  almost 
lovingly,  lingering  here  a  second  tenderly,  then  passing  on  to  touch 
another  object  almost  reverently.  The  visitor  wondered  what  store  of 
treasures  this  was  the  old  man  had  collected. 

"  Ah,"  he  breathed  suggestively.  "  Perhaps  the  gentleman  would  like 
a  curio  ?  Here  is  one  with  a  history,  handed  down  from  father  to  son 
through  the  long  vendetta  !  " 

It  was  a  cross  between  a  stiletto  and  a  dagger,  with  a  long,  keen,  sinu- 
ously curving  blade,  that  stood  out  from  the  hilt  in  a  veritable  wriggle. 

"  Such  workmanship  !  "  the  old  man  exclaimed,  "  such  quality  of  steel ! 
Ah,  and  such  a  history  of  dark  deeds.  Behold  the  row  of  notches  on  the 
hilt !  And  cheap,  good  sir,  cheap  as  dirt.  A  lady's  ornament,  but  the 
weapon  of  an  outraged  royal  honor  !  " 

He  painted  it  well,  the  old  rascal.  One  almost  saw  in  his  mind's  eye 
the  dark-cloaked  baron  stealing  up  behind  his  victim,  the  faint  flare  of 
a  cloud-hid  moon  above,  and  heard  the  soft  chug  as  the  weapon  fleetly 
struck  home. 

"  The  price  ?  "  and  the  old  man's  eyes  snapped  brightly,  "  only  fifteen, 
sir,  and  dirt  cheap." 

The  clink  of  small  coin  broke  the  stillness,  rattling  upon  the  glass  case, 
only  to  call  a  snort  of  disgust  from  the  weazened  little  old  man. 

"  Dollars,  sir,  dollars  I  "  he  snarled  spitefully.  The  weapon  of  the 
vendetta-cursed  royalty  is  still  his.  —  H.  F.  H.,  in  Ohio  State  Jourrial 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  99 

INSPIRATION   IN  A  SANDWICH 

Ray  Horner,  a  student  in  the  University  of  Missouri,  was  keeping  a 
'"  date  "  with  a  co-ed.  They  had  just  about  exhausted  the  possibilities  of 
conversation  in  the  "  horrid  way  the  profs  act,"  and  "  did  you  hear  "  and 
so  forth,  when  the  girl,  who  seemed  to  know  a  lot  about  what  men  like, 
led  the  way  to  the  kitchen. 

They  rummaged  about  in  the  pantry,  ice  box  and  everywhere,  but  all 
they  could  find  was  some  boiled  ham  and  a  few  buns.  They  made  ham 
sandwiches  out  of  them.  And  it  was  right  then  that  Horner,  who  is  a 
senior  in  the  College  of  Arts  and  Science,  got  the  idea. 

Everyone  gets  hungry,  he  argued,  whether  they  are  studying  for  a 
quiz,  playing  rummy  or  talking  to  a  girl.  He  took  another  bite  of  the 
ham  sandwich.  "  Say,"  he  said,  "  I  '11  bet  lots  of  guys  would  like  a 
sandwich  like  this  and  haven't  time  to  go  down  town  after  it." 

It  was  10.30,  the  hour  when  the  university  rules  say  that  a  "date" 
must  end,  so  Horner  started  home,  still  talking  about  ham  sandwiches. 
The  next  night  Horner  and  his  brother,  Lawrence,  fixed  up  a  dozen  lunch 
baskets  filled  with  ham  sandwiches,  pie  and  fruit.  Lawrence  balanced 
them  on  the  handlebars  of  his  motor  cycle  and  delivered  them  to 
fraternity  and  sorority  houses  with  a  little  note  explaining  the  plan. 

After  midnight  the  Horners  came  for  their  baskets.  There  wasn't  a 
ham  sandwich  left  in  any  of  them  —  nothing  but  nickels  and  dimes. 

So  the  Horner  brothers  and  Elbert  and  Perry  Loren  began  work  in 
earnest.  They  rented  a  vacant  basement  room ;  they  arranged  long 
tables  on  which  to  work ;  they  hired  a  motherly  woman  to  bake  them 
home-made  pies  by  the  dozen.  Instead  of  leaving  a  dozen  baskets  the 
second  night,  they  filled  two  dozen. 

The  number  was  rapidly  increased,  until  seventy-five  rooming  houses 
were  eating  the  midnight  lunches  that  grew  out  of  a  ham  sandwich.  A 
motor  cycle  equipped  with  a  side-car  was  purchased,  so  that  the  younger 
Homer  no  longer  had  to  balance  numerous  baskets  on  the  handlebars, 
but  had  them  neatly  piled  in  the  car.  Thirty  or  thirty-five  baskets  could 
be  taken  at  a  time  now  and  delivered  in  about  half  an  hour.  The  first 
motor  cycle  was  used  for  special  orders  which  were  received  over  their 
ovm  telephone  after  the  regular  delivery  has  started. 

Beginning  with  a  ham  sandwich,  they  have  built  up  a  business  of 
almost  $300  a  week. —  Kansas  City  Star 


lOO  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

TIRED  OF  BIG  CITY  LIFE,  SHE'S  GOING  BACK   HOME 

If  a  gust  of  wind  had  n't  come  racing  down  the  street  just  then,  causing 
a  bevy  of  autumn  leaves  to  flutter  down  in  front  of  Jane  Richard,  the 
folk  on  the  farm  likely  would  n't  have  seen  her  for  another  winter  at  least. 

But  when  nature  sent  those  leaves  down  to  Jane  she  thought  of  home 
—  the  8o-acre  farm  near  Celina,  Ohio,  where  right  now  the  pumpkins  are 
yellow  and  the  squirrels  are  filling  their  treasure  chests  with  nuts  for 
the  winter. 

That  noon  Jane  wrote  she  was  coming  home.  She  was  in  Probationer 
Christian's  office  Tuesday  to  say  goodby. 

"  I'm  going  back,  Mr.  Christian,  I  've  had  enough  of  the  city,"  she  said. 

Jane  was  eighteen  when  the  lure  of  the  city  drew  her  to  Cleveland, 
about  a  year  and  a  half  ago.  She  had  visions  of  becoming  an  actress. 
But  eventually  she  went  to  work  in  a  factory.  If  it  had  n't  been  for 
her  pride,  she  would  have  returned  home  after  the  first  month. 

Probationer  Christian  made  her  acquaintance  while  investigating  the 
case  of  another  girl,  whom  Jane  had  befriended. 

"  Just  think,  Mr.  Christian,"  said  the  Richard  girl  Tuesday,  "  by  the 
time  you  're  eating  supper  tonight  I  '11  be  back  home  eating  with  ma  and 
pa.  Down  home  we  eat  over  a  red  and  white  tablecloth.  I  never  want  to 
see  a  white  restaurant  tablecloth  again. 

"  You  bet  this  winter  I  won't  be  getting  up  at  6  o'clock,  spending 
1 5  cents  for  breakfast  and  rushing  to  the  factory.  But  I  '11  be  getting 
up  at  5  to  help  with  the  milk. 

''  And  in  the  afternoons  when  girls  here  are  wishing  it  was  quitting 
time,  I  '11  be  helping  ma  with  the  housework.  And  then  on  afternoons 
when  Jim's  pa  can  spare  him  we'll  take  our  rifles  and  go  hunting  — 
that  is  if  Jim  can  forgive  me. 

"  Jim's  folk  have  a  farm  two  miles  from  us.  Jim  did  n't  want  me  to 
come  to  the  city  any  more  than  ma  and  pa  did.  He  came  up  after  me  twice. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Christian,  did  you  ever  go  to  a  moonlight  skating  party  ? 
After  the  free-for-all  race  on  the  ice  they  gather  about  a  big  bonfire, 
roast  hickory  nuts  and  tell  ghost  stories. 

"  Gee,  I  wish  I  could  take  about  a  dozen  girls  in  the  factory  to  one 
of  those  parties  !    You  would  n't  see  'em  in  the  city  again  !  " 

Before  Jane  said  goodby  she  showed  the  last  letter  from  home  to  the 
probationer.    It  read  : 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  lOl 

"  Dear  Janie  :  I  was  just  wild  with  the  news.  I  ran  out  to  the  corn- 
field where  pa  was  working  to  tell  him  you  are  coming  back.  He  got  all 
excited,  too.    Wish  it  was  time  to  meet  your  train  now. 

"  Must  hurry.  The  mail  carrier  will  be  along  in  a  few  minutes.  Pa 
thought  it  was  a  good  joke  on  you  to  forget  your  pocketbook  and  have 
to  go  without  lunch.  When  he  read  it  in  your  letter  he  laughed  louder 
than  I  've  heard  him  since  you  left,  honey.  Pa  has  bought  two  new 
milch  cows.     One  has  a  white  face. 

"  Be  careful  about  drafts  on  the  train,  Janie. 

"  With  lots  of  love,  Mother. 

"  P.S. :  Just  phoned  Jim  the  news.  Couldn't  make  out  what  he  said 
—  the  neighbors  had  their  receivers  down  listening  —  but  from  the 
noise  he  made  I  expect  pa  and  me  won't  be  the  only  ones  at  the  train 
to  meet  you." —  Cleveland  Press 


WAITS  TO   KISS  THE  BRIDE;    SHOT  FOR  A  BURGLAR 

It  was  getting  close  to  5  o'clock  yesterday  morning  when  Ben  Liebo- 
witz  kissed  the  bride  and  started  home.  He  realized  he  might  have  stayed 
a  trifle  too  long  at  the  v/edding  party  and  might  have  been  just  a  trifle 
too  solicitous  concerning  the  health  of  the  bride. 

As  Ben  took  the  hairpin  turn  into  Taylor  street  he  was  perfectly 
aware  the  number  he  wanted  was  12 15.  He  had  entered  the  door 
of  12 15  too  many  times  to  forget  that.  But  telling  the  difference 
between  12 15  and  12 13,  its  twin  neighbor,  in  that  dim  light  —  and  with 
the  bride's  health  so  lately  and  thoroughly  insured  —  was  something 
else  again. 

Ben  decided  to  trust  to  instinct.  He  took  the  four  front  steps  of 
one  of  the  houses  in  eleven  airy  bounds  and  fell  into  the  lower  hall. 
Only  a  door  and  a  wall  stood  between  him  and  long  overdue  rest. 
He  picked  himself  up  and  fumbled  for  his  key. 

For  the  convenience  of  the  reader  in  following  subsequent  action,  let 
us  imagine  the  wall  and  the  door  in  the  stage  setting  thus : 

John  Quirk,  sleeping  in  the  front  Belated  Ben,  experimenting  with 

room  of  his  flat  at  12 13  Taylor  the  key,  took  cognizance  of  the 
street,  was  awakened  by  a  sound  rather  startling  fact  that  the  door 
at  the  door.  was  locked  on  the  inside. 

"  Burglars  !  "  thought  John.  "  Burglars  !  "  thought  Ben. 


I02  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  Who  's  there  ?  "  he  cried.  He  heard  them  whispering. 

Again    the    noise   at    the  door.  Perhaps  the  key  on  the  other 

John,    resolving    to    sell    his    life  side   might    be   worked   from    the 

dearly,    reached   under   his   pillow  keyhole.     Ben  tried.    He  felt  him- 

for  his  revolver.  self  a  match  for  a  dozen  burglars. 

'"  Get  away  or  I  '11  shoot !  "  yelled  More  whispers  behind  the  door. 

John.  Another  poke  and  the  key  would 

drop. 

Still  there  !    Bang  !  From  Ben  :  a  groan  ;  silence. 

John  Quirk,  ready  to  shoot  again,  threw  open  the  door  of  his  flat  on 
the  first  floor  at  12 13  Taylor  street.  In  the  hallway  lay  his  victim,  face 
down.  He  turned  him  over.  Heavens !  Neighbor  Ben,  the  wedding 
guest !  Quick,  the  police,  the  ambulance,  at  last  the  county  hospital  I 
Did  you  hear  the  doctor  ?    Only  a  scalp  wound,  praise  be. 

Ben  Liebowitz  will  be  in  proper  wedding  guest  shape  in  a  week  or 
two  —  but  he  '11  leave  the  health  of  the  bride  to  the  spendthrifts  who 
go  home  in  taxis. —  Chicago  Tribune 

LIFE'S  LITTLE  IRONIES 

THROBS  OF  A  MISSPENT   LIFE 

A  little  old  man,  shrunken  of  frame,  whose  white  hair  fell  nearly  to 
his  shoulders,  stood  on  Broadway  playing  a  battered  violin.  Beside  an 
"  L  "  pillar  stood  a  woman.  She  might  have  been  40  or  less.  Her  face 
was  powdered.  Her  dress  was  shabby,  her  hat  two  seasons  old.  As  the 
old  man  was  passing  the  hat  she  said  to  him : 

"  Will  you  let  me  look  at  your  violin  ?  " 

He  handed  it  to  her.  She  took  the  instrument  tenderly,  handling  it 
with  almost  reverent  care.  She  tightened  the  strings,  touching  them 
lightly  with  her  fingers  as  she  moved  one  and  another  of  the  pegs. 

"  Will  you  let  me  see  your  bow  ? "  she  asked  of  the  old  man.  He 
passed  it  to  her  without  comment.  It  seemed  as  if  he  knew  instinctively 
the  fiddle  was  safe  in  her  hands.  She  tightened  the  bow,  placed  the 
violin  under  her  chin  and  began  to  play.  The  old  man  stared.  From  the 
battered  violin  came  melody  far  different  from  the  tunes  he  had  sawed 
out  of  it.  The  hushed  crowd  gaped  at  the  shabbily  dressed  woman. 
Her  playing  was  wonderful.  Imaginative  listeners  heard  the  roll  of 
thunder,  the  driving  of  rain,  then  the  twittering  of  birds  under  blue  skies; 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  103 

finally  the  sobbing  of  a  human  being  in  pain.  Women  in  the  crowd 
wept ;  so  did  the  aged  owner  of  the  violin. 

The  face  of  the  player  grew  paler,  more  set,  but  no  tears  shone  in  her 
eyes.  She  played  on  to  the  last  note.  A  policeman  was  wedging  his  way 
through  the  throng,  which  threatened  to  halt  traffic.  The  woman  looked 
toward  him,  handed  the  violin  and  bow  to  the  owner  with  a  simple, 
'"  Thank  you,"  and  quickly  was  lost  to  view  in  the  throng.  But  the 
policeman  had  seen  her  face. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  asked  a  bystander. 

"  Oh,  this  is  her  beat,"  said  the  bluecoat,  waving  down  the  avenue. — 
New  York  World 

SHADOWS  OF  THE  CIRCUS 

New  York,  April  2. —  When  Ella  Hackett,  the  daughter  of  Clarence 
L.  Hackett,  a  dentist  of  this  city,  was  a  little  girl,  she  lived  in  a  small 
town.  She  also  owned  a  pony.  One  day  a  circus  came  to  town  and 
she  rode  her  pony  down  to  see  the  parade. 

The  giddy  posters,  the  lithe-limbed  men,  the  clowns,  the  ladies  in  pink 
tights  and  the  splendid  horses  thrilled  her  soul.  At  once  it  became  her 
ambition  to  ride  one  of  those  magnificent  animals.  Then  when  her 
mother  took  her  to  see  "  Polly  of  the  Circus,"  a  drama,  her  desire  was 
mature.    The  ambition  stayed  with  her  to  womanhood. 

She  practiced  and  became  an  expert  equestrienne.  She  also  learned  to 
do  trapeze  work.  Yesterday  the  management  at  Madison  Square  Garden 
consented  to  give  her  a  trial. 

She  brought  her  own  horse  to  the  arena  and  demonstrated  trick  after 
trick  until  she  even  won  applause  from  the  old  circus  men.  Then  she 
started  to  show  her  aerial  work. 

She  mounted  an  improvised  platform,  50  feet  from  the  floor.  She 
looked  down.  A  forest  of  ropes,  wires  and  broad  nets  dangled  from  the 
girders.  Banners,  glistening  spears,  red  chariots  and  great  canvas-covered 
floats  were  scattered  about  the  floor.  Stage  mechanics  paused  in  their 
work  to  smile  encouragingly  up  at  her. 

Quickly  she  swung  outward  on  the  trapeze.  Then  she  released  her 
grasp  and  began  a  long,  revolving  swing.  But  as  she  turned  upright  in 
the  air,  the  iron  bar  eluded  her  grasp.  Her  body  hurtled  through  the  air, 
missing  the  wires  and  nets,  straight  to  the  cement  pavement  of  the  ring. 
She  was  dead  when  they  reached  her. 


I04  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

ITALIAN    IN  A  LOVE  TANGLE 

Martin  Pienta  came  to  Kansas  City,  Kans.,  from  Italy  three  years  ago 
and  obtained  work  in  one  of  the  packing  houses.  In  his  Italian -moun- 
tain home  Floriana,  his  seventeen-year-old  sweetheart,  awaited  a  letter 
telling  her  to  start  to  the  New  W'orld  to  become  his  wife.  After  Martin 
had  worked  a  year,  saving  every  cent  he  could,  Floriana  was  sent  for. 
When  she  arrived  they  were  married  by  their  priest  in  Kansas  City,  Kans. 

Martin  Pienta  and  his  young  wife  were  happy  for  a  time.  Then 
Floriana  got  the  taste  for  American  dances  and  entertainments.  She 
met  many  men  at  these  dances,  and  before  long  Martin  and  she  quarreled 
because  of  them.  Then  Floriana  sued  for  divorce.  The  day  the  divorce 
was  granted  Martin  waited  in  the  hall  leading  to  the  courtroom.  He 
cried  and  disturbed  the  court  proceedings  with  loud  demands  that  he 
be  allowed  to  see  his  wife. 

That  was  several  months  ago.  December  20  Martin  fought  with 
Vincent  Veluska  and  was  beaten  severely.  He  was  taken  to  St. 
Margaret's  Hospital.  Friday  night  he  died.  His  last  words  were  a  call 
for  Floriana. 

A  Wyandotte  County  coroner's  jury  yesterday  afternoon  recommended 
that  Veluska  should  be  held  for  trial  for  Pienta's  murder.  —  Kansas 
City  Star 

Editor's  Note.  The  foregoing  stories,  which  present  glimpses  of  real 
life,  have  been  clipped  from  newspapers  as  exhibiting  human  nature  under 
stress  of  sorrow,  joy,  and  kindred  emotions.  Their  central  figures  are  people 
placed  in  somewhat  romantic  settings.  All  of  them  are  good  examples  of 
an  inversion  of  the  news  structure,  of  the  predominance  of  human-interest 
treatment,  with  the  element  of  suspense  a  chief  ingredient. 

The  first  story  of  Hermann  Miess,  a  German  musician  who  preferred  a 
prison  cell  to  parting  from  his  violin,  is  a  transcript  of  an  actual  experience. 
The  insertion  of  names  and  specific  details  enlarges  the  circle  of  interest.  The 
story  avoids  the  usual  sordidness  of  police  chronicles  and  is  refreshing  on 
that  account. 

The  description  of  the  little  weazened-faced  pawnbroker  is  based  on  the 
adventure  of  a  reporter  in  search  of  a  story.  It  indicates  some  of  the  methods 
that  may  be  employed  in  securing  materials  for  human-interest  tales.  The 
conversation  of  the  little  man  has  been  dressed  up  a  bit  to  harmonize  with  the 
setting  and  with  the  treacherous  blade,  but  the  essential  facts  remain  intact. 

The  ingenuity  of  a  university  student  in  making  the  manufacture  of 
sandwiches  his  source  of  revenue  is  recorded  in  the  tale  "  Inspiration  in  a 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  1 05 

Sandwich,"  particularly  readable  to  any  man  who  has  struggled  to  acquire  a 
college  education. 

The  lure  of  the  big  city  and  the  beckoning  hills  of  the  country  are  set  side  by 
side  in  the  story  of  Jane  Richard,  who  went  back  home,  cured  of  her  ambition 
to  become  a  great  actress.  The  call  of  the  earth  dins  constantly  in  the  ears 
of  the  city  dweller,  which  perhaps  gives  this  tale  its  zest.  The  letter  from  the 
mother  adds  to  the  effectiveness  of  the  story.  This  is  a  modern  version  of  "  The 
Prodigal  Son."  Its  appeal  is  as  old  as  a  mother's  love  for  her  children.  This 
type  of  story,  which  features  a  heroine  in  headline,  conversation,  and  picture, 
has  a  large  vogue  among  certain  papers  that  "  play  up  "  the  feminine  appeal. 

The  misadventures  of  Ben  Liebowitz,  who  got  into  the  wrong  house,  is  a 
humorous  recital  with  a  semiserious  termination  that  will  bring  a  smile  to  any 
city  man  who  lives  in  a  crowded  street,  jammed  with  houses  architecturally 
monotonous.  The  handling  of  the  conversation  is  novel  and  interesting,  and 
suspense  is  well  contrived.  The  story  has  a  lively  gait.  A  note  of  pathos  is 
struck  in  "  Throbs  of  a  Misspent  Life,"  "  Shadows  of  the  Circus,"  and 
"  Italian  in  a  Love  Tangle,"  all  descriptive  of  an  inexorable  fate.  All  three 
are  written  with  sympathy  and  understanding. 


TALES  OF  THE  TOWN 

AND  THE  DOOR  WAS  SHUT! 

"  Mr.  J.  Doolittle  Perkins,  Law^yer,"  is  the  way  you  will  find  it  once 
you  have  whizzed  up  the  elevator  shaft  of  a  Columbus  smoke-scraper 
and  presented  yourself  at  the  threshold  of  a  diminutive  office.  Of  course 
that  is  not  the  really-truly  name.  Rising  attorneys  are  strong  on  profes- 
sional ethics,  you  know,  and  besides,  the  modest  mistress  of  the  Perkins 
household  cares  not  a  cooky  for  the  glare  of  publicity.  So  let  the  name 
canter  by,  and  listen,  prithee,  to  the  young  barrister's  story  which  may 
be  entitled  the  "  Adventure  of  the  Closed  Door." 

Mr.  J.  Doolittle  Perkins  ambled  home  the  other  night  from  a  speech- 
fest  with  some  of  his  old  cronies  in  a  place  where  amber  joy  froths  in  the 
cup.  Mr.  J.  Doolittle  had  been  the  toastmaster  of  the  feast  and  had  told 
some  very  hilarious  stories  that  had  sent  the  echoes  rocking.  Incidentally, 
he  had  volunteered  a  few  pleasant  things  about  the  law  and  lawyers,  all 
of  which  had  been  uproariously  received.  Then  he  called  on  the  orators 
of  the  evening.  Oh,  it  was  a  peacherino  of  a  banquet,  and  Mr.  J.  Doolittle 
was  the  king  bee  of  the  hive. 

After  all  the  gayly  labeled  Havanas  had  trailed  up  in  smoke,  a  re- 
porter sought  out  the  toastmaster  and  asked  for  names  and  particulars. 


lo6  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Mr.  J.  Doolittle  beamed  and  supplied  the  information.  It  was  this  very 
thought  of  approaching  headlining  in  the  morning  paper  that  made  the 
young  lawyer  so  blithe  at  heart  on  his  homeward  way  —  as  hath  been 
related. 

Sunday  morning  dawned  with  a  chill  in  the  air  and  snow  on  the  ground. 
An  hour  sped  by.  Then  Mr.  J.  Doolittle  rolled  over,  gazed  at  the  alarm 
clock  and  slid  softly  out  of  bed.  He  tiptoed  down  the  front  stairs  in  his 
striped  pajamas.  He  reached  the  door  that  led  to  the  porch.  Through 
the  glass  he  saw  the  morning  paper  —  and  fame.  What  if  it  was  cold 
outside,  what  if  frigid  winds  did  swoop  'round  gable  and  cornice  ?  Did 
not  Leander  swim  the  Hellespont,  did  not  —  so  Mr.  J.  Doolittle  stepped 
gingerly  out  on  the  porch  all  in  the  white  light  of  a  quiet  Sabbath  morn 
to  seize  the  morning  news.  Enter  Tragedy  with  grim  visage ;  let  the 
Goddess  of  Misfortune  ring  all  her  clanging  bells  ! 

Then  it  happened.  The  young  lawyer  had  forgotten  the  lock.  The 
door  swung  on  its  hinges  and  dropped  back  in  its  latch.  Mr.  J.  Doolittle 
tried  to  turn  the  knob.  It  did  not  budge.  The  release  worked  from  the 
other  side.  The  lawyer  stood  shivering  and  gibbering  in  the  cold,  cold 
world,  and  in  a  pair  of  flimsy  pajamas  at  that. 

The  stentorian  mouthing  of  a  newsboy  cut  the  crisp  morning  air.  A 
milk  wagon  rattled  by,  the  driver  looking  out  with  open-eyed  wonderment. 
Mr.  J.  Doolittle  swore.  With  numbing  fingers  he  rattled  the  knob  in 
desperation.  Wifey  snoozed  contentedly  upstairs,  unaware  of  her  lord's 
mishap.    Mr.  J.  Doolittle  raised  his  voice  into  a  wallop  of  entreaty. 

'"  Mamie,  Mamie,  M-a-m-i-e !  "  he  shouted  in  iced  accents,  rubbing 
one  bare  foot  against  the  other  to  keep  warm,  "  let  me  in,  I'm  freezing 
to  death.    Bur-r-r  1" 

After  an  eternity  of  waiting  wifey  raised  the  window  and  peered 
cautiously  out. 

"  Is  that  you,  Jim  ?  Why,  w-w-hy  what 's  the  matter  with  you  ?  W-what 
are  you  out  there  f or  ?  "  excitedly. 

"  It 's  the  darned  door,  I  —  I  —  I  came  out  to  get  the  paper "  The 

window  came  down  with  a  bang.  W^ifey  was  speeding  to  the  rescue.  A 
moment  later  the  door  opened,  and  shivering,  chattering  Mr.  J.  Doolittle 
Perkins  found  himself  within  the  haven  of  his  own  home. 

But  he  left  the  paper  on  the  porch.  —  H.  F.  H.,  in  O/iio  State  Journal 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  107 

A  PIED   PIPER   FALLS  DOWN 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin  Town,  his  rags  fluttering,  strode  through 
the  stockyards  yesterday.  He  had  just  come  to  Kansas  City  "  on  the  rods." 

"  Friend,"  said  he,  rushing  up  to  a  yards'  salesman.  "  Friend,  about 
twenty  or  thirty  pigs  got  out  of  a  pen  down  here.  Will  you  give  me  a 
half  dollar  to  round  'em  up  ?  " 

"  How  will  you  do  it  ?  "  said  the  other, 

"  Whistlin',"  said  the  Pied  Piper.  "  Fm  the  best  litde  whistler  in  the 
world.    I  can  whistle  a  pig  out  of  a  mud  hole." 

"  Go  to  it,"  said  the  other,  running.  The  Pied  Piper  galloped  along. 
They  neared  the  squealing,  grunting,  fleeing  pigs.  The  Pied  Piper 
whistled.  But  never  a  pig  turned  back.  In  fact,  all  seemed  to  accelerate 
their  pace  thereat. 

Other  men  joined  in  the  merry  chase,  and  the  pigs  finally  were  rounded 
up.  Then  the  salesman  found  the  gate  of  the  pen  open.  It  requires 
human  agency  to  accomplish  that.  He  suspected  the  Pied  Piper  and 
called  a  policeman. 

Instead  of  fifty  cents  the  Pied  Piper  got  $25  in  the  South  Side  Munic- 
ipal Court  this  morning.    The  $25  was  a  fine.  — Kansas  City  Star 


SHE  SERVES  COAL  AND  CURES  HUBBY 

Here  's  a  story  for  wives  only.  All  wives  are  not  included,  just  those 
amiable  spouses  who  have  hubbies  who  persist  in  talking  copper  stocks, 
adding  up  figures,  counting  profits  and  otherwise  speculating  on  business 
affairs  when  they  should  be  telling  funny  stories  to  the  other  members 
of  the  home  circle. 

This  wife  had  been  obliged  to  listen  to  a  recital  of  her  husband's  busi- 
ness affairs  so  long  that  she  had  grown  very  tired.  Every  time  he  went 
home  he  had  something  new  to  tell  about  the  coal  business  ;  every  time  he 
sat  down  to  dinner  he  talked  coal,  he  ate  coal,  drank  coal  tea  and  breathed 
coal  dust.  That  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  the  man  is  one  of  the  most 
prosperous  coal  dealers  in  the  North  Side.  But  the  wife  does  n't  care 
a  cooky  about  coal.  She  believes  that  when  the  man  of  the  household 
goes  home  to  dinner  he  should  lock  up  the  coal  along  with  the  ledgers 
and  just  be  sociable.  She  protested  and  protested,  but  the  husband  still 
expatiated  on  coal. 


io8  TVPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

At  last  one  evening  she  hit  upon  an  expedient.  Hubby  went  home, 
sat  down  to  dinner,  ate  a  slice  of  roast  beef  and  launched  forth  on  his 
favorite  theme.  Dinner  progressed  slowly,  then  the  dishes  were  cleared 
away  and  the  family  waited  for  dessert.    In  came  the  maid  with  the  plates. 

Very  carefully  she  placed  the  dessert  before  each  member  of  the 
household.  A  smile  crept  from  ^one  face  to  another.  Hubby  stopped  in 
his  dissertations  with  eyes  bulging  out. 

"  Why  —  why  —  what 's  this  ?  "  he  stuttered. 

The  dessert  consisted  of  a  piece  of  coal  for  each  member  of  the  family, 
including  paterfamilias. 

The  remedy  was  effective.  Since  then  the  coal  dealer  has  not  even 
mentioned  his  favorite  hobby.  And,  wonder  of  wonders,  he  has  begun 
telling  funny  yarns.  —  H.  F.  H.,  in  Ohio  State  Journal 


JOSEPH  SPEED  WAS  TOO  SLOW 

Joseph  Speed  is  fleet  of  foot  and  believes  in  system.  When  he  gathered 
bread  and  milk  from  doorsteps  he  did  it  in  a  regular,  businesslike  manner. 
In  fact,  he  had  a  route,  which  switched  from  one  neighborhood  to  the 
other  —  and  back  again  to  the  first  district. 

Unlike  the  usual  doorstep  thieves,  the  police  say,  he  used  a  wheel- 
barrow. It  is  possible  that  he  would  have  opened  a  store  had  he  not 
been  trapped  by  a  slight  accident. 

As  all  houses  looked  alike  to  Speed,  he  gathered  bread  and  milk  from 
the  doorstep  of  Sergeant  Lynch  of  the  Seventh  and  Carpenter  Streets 
Station.  But  Speed  dropped  the  milk  on  the  sidewalk,  and  the  crash 
attracted  the  attention  of  Policeman  Mintz  a  short  distance  away.  Mintz 
was  in  the  habit  of  seeing  milkmen  leave  milk  on  the  doorsteps  instead 
of  taking  it  away.  He  started  after  Speed,  but  Speed  sped  down  the 
street,  deserting  his  barrow.    Mintz  caught  him. 

It  was  found  that  Speed  had  collected  many  loaves  of  bread  and  con- 
siderable milk.  At  the  Seventh  and  Carpenter  Streets  Station  he  told 
Magistrate  Coward  that  he  took  the  hread  and  milk  because  he  was 
hungry  and  could  not  get  work. 

"  You  must  have  the  appetite  of  an  ostrich,"  said  the  magistrate. 
"Three  hundred  dollars  bail  for  a  further  hearing."  —  Philadelphia 
Evening  Ledger 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  109 

HUNGRY  JOE  SPOILED  A  FEAST 

It  was  the  steenth  wedding  anniversary  of  Mrs.  B.  Kirshner,  1730 
Holmes  street,  and  there  was  to  be  a  great  feast  with  many  relatives 
present.  Two  days  Mrs.  Kirshner  spent  in  baking  and  cooking.  So 
yesterday  afternoon,  just  before  the  arrival  of  the  expected  guests,  Mrs. 
Kirshner  placed  the  goodies  in  the  refrigerator  on  the  back  porch.  Then 
the  front  doorbell  rang.  She  hastily  withdrew  the  turkey  from  the  oven, 
set  it  on  a  platter  on  the  kitchen  table,  forgetting  to  close  the  kitchen 
dpor  in  her  hurry,  and  hastened  to  greet  the  guests. 

A  chat  as  the  guests  removed  their  wraps  before  taking  seats  at  the 
table  all  spread  for  the  feast.    Then  the  hostess  hastened  to  the  kitchen. 

The  turkey  was  gone  from  the  kitchen  table.  Rushing  out  the  back  door 
she  stumbled  over  a  figure  sitting  there.  Then  she  screamed.  Seated  on 
the  back  porch  by  the  open  door  of  the  refrigerator  was  a  tatterdemalion 
with  a  fuzzy  beard  that  stretched  from  ear  to  ear.  Scattered  about  him 
were  remnants  of  a  great  bowl  of  peas,  a  dish  of  quivering  cranberry 
sauce  and  the  dishonorable  ruin  of  the  noble  bird.  Two  grimy  fists  were 
cramming  a  huge  pumpkin  pie  into  the  capacious  slit  between  the  whiskers. 

Mrs.  Kirshner,  gazing  stunned  upon  the  uninvited  guest,  screamed 
again,  then  fell  upon  the  thief.  To  be  exact,  she  sat  down  on  his  head. 
A  dozen  boys  playing  in  the  next  yard  heard  the  screams  and  came  to  the 
rescue.  The  Lilliputians  helped  her  hold  the  captive  Brobdingnag.  The 
guests  also  hastened  to  her  aid,  while  someone  telephoned  for  the  police. 

The  captive  was  taken  to  the  Walnut  Street  Police  Station.  He  re- 
fused breakfast  this  morning.  In  the  South  Side  Municipal  Court,  an- 
swering to  the  name  of  Joe  Nelson,  vagrant,  he  remarked  the  feast  would 
last  him  a  week  and  that  he  had  never  before  tasted  such  provender. 
He  will  serve  three  months  in  jail  in  payment.  —  Kansas  City  Star 

A  THEFT  WITH  LOCAL  COLOR 

Three  white  men  in  a  green  wagon  driving  a  black  horse  "  put  one 
over  "  on  a  green  maid  in  a  white  house  at  3125  Broadway  this  morning. 
The  house  is  the  home  of  Mrs.  Frank  Ferguson,  and  Mrs.  Ferguson  was 
out.  The  white  men  took  a  lot  of  vegetables  from  the  green  wagon  and 
took  them  to  the  back  door  of  the  white  house. 

'"  What 's  all  this  ?  "  asked  the  green  maid. 


no  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  This  is  vegetables  ordered  by  Mrs.  Ferguson,  who  said  you  would 
pay  for  them  on  delivery,"  said  the  three  white  men. 

Then  the  three  white  men  dumped  three  bushels  of  brown  potatoes 
and  a  similar  amount  of  red  apples  and  a  lot  of  red  and  white  onions 
and  a  lot  of  other  varicolored  vegetables,  and  collected  $g.Co  in  long 
green  from  the  maid.  Then  they  climbed  into  the  green  wagon,  clucked 
at  the  black  horse  and  drove  away.  Pretty  soon  Mrs.  Ferguson  got 
home  and  saw  the  pile  of  provisions. 

"  What 's  all  this  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ferguson,  echoing  the  maid. 

"  This  is  vegetables  ordered  by  you,  and  I  paid  for  them  on  delivery 
by  three  white  men  in  a  green  wagon  with  a  black  horse,"  said  the  green 
maid.  Mrs.  Ferguson  had  not  ordered  the  vegetables.  More  than  that, 
the  vegetables  all  were  short  measure.  Mrs.  Ferguson  was  angry  for 
two  reasons  when  she  told  the  police  about  it,  and  especially  about  the 
short  measure.  —  Kansas  City  Star 

THEY  FOUND  THE  BLUEBIRD  OF  HAPPINESS 

A  young  man  held  down  a  comfortable  chair  in  the  lobby  of  the 
Blossom  House  at  3  o'clock  yesterday  afternoon.  He  smiled  as  though 
well  pleased  with  himself,  for  he  was  about  to  "  put  one  over." 

Enter  an  old  gentleman,  who  made  his  way  rapidly  to  the  desk  and 
awaited  a  chance  to  ask  E.  N.  Giffee,  the  clerk,  a  question.  The  young 
man  arose,  stepped  forward  and  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Wiley  ?  "  he  said. 

The  elderly  gentleman  turned. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

"  You  are  J.  W.  Wiley,  of  Dallas,  Texas  ? " 

"  I  am,  sir." 

"  You  don't  know  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  I  have  the  pleasure." 

The  young  man  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 

"  You  used  to  know  me,"  he  said.  "  You  used  to  lick  daylights  out 
of  me  regularly.    You  see,  I'm  your  son." 

"  You  —  you  —  "  The  old  man  stood  back,  took  another  look,  then 
clasped  his  son  in  his  arms. 

"  You  did  n't  know  me  —  did  n't  know  me,"  the  son  chattered. 

"  I  did  n't,"  the  father  confessed. 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  III 

Then  the  father  hurried  outside  the  hotel  and  called  in  his  wife,  while 
the  son  stood  in  the  center  of  the  lobby  and  waited.  The  mother  entered, 
looked  at  the  men  present,  rushed  straight  to  her  son  and  began  weeping 
softly  on  his  shoulder. 

The  mother  knew  her  son  all  right. 

And  neither  parent  had  seen  him  for  twenty  years.  They  stood  there 
for  a  moment  too  happy  to  speak,  disregarding  the  stares  of  the  persons 
in  the  hotel  lobby.    Then  — 

"  Where  do  I  come  in  ?  "  demanded  a  sweet  voice. 

A  young  girl  plucked  at  the  sleeve  of  the  son.    He  removed  his  hat. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ? "  he  said,  something  of  sternness  in  his  voice. 

The  young  girl  laughed ;  the  father  and  mother  laughed. 

"  You  see,  I'm  your  sister,"  the  girl  said. 

This  time  it  was  not  the  son  who  "  put  one  over." 

The  sister  is  sixteen  years  old.  She  was  born  four  years  after  her 
brother  left  home  to  make  his  fortune. 

The  meeting  was  not  accidental.  It  was  premeditated.  The  Wiley  family 
decided  to  leave  Texas  and  journey  to  Oregon.  They  communicated  with 
M.  H.  Wiley,  of  St.  Joseph,  the  son,  and  arranged  to  meet  him  in  Kansas 
City.    The  son  arrived  first  and  the  others  of  the  family  soon  afterward. 

Late  yesterday  afternoon  the  reunited  family  boarded  a  train  for  the 
Pacific  Northwest.  The  father  was  happy  and  the  son  and  daughter 
were  happy,  but  the  little  gray-haired  mother  —  well,  she  was  the 
happiest  of  them  all. 

"  It  certainly  made  a  pretty  little  scene,"  Clerk  Giffee  said.  "  It  made 
a  man  want  to  laugh  and  cry  at  the  same  time."  —  Kansas  City  Star 

Editor's  Note.  These  tales  of  the  town,  while  insignificant  in  themselves, 
are  entertaining  and  diverting.  They  may  be  grouped  under  various  "  label " 
headings  which  many  newspapers  use  in  the  compilation  of  stray  stories 
gathered  by  the  staff,  or  they  may  win  a  distinct  box-heading  of  their  own. 
Most  of  these  stories  have  a  slender  plot  interest,  carry  little  news,  and  are 
unimportant  as  conveyers  of  information,  but  they  throw  a  pleasant  glamour 
around  human  nature  in  its  merrier  moods. 

The  foregoing  specimens  may  be  grouped  under  such  a  caption  as  "  Tales 
of  the  Town,"  "  Caught  on  the  Curb,"  or  "  Pen  Pictures  of  Metropolitan  Life," 
the  last  a  special  column  of  anecdote  and  incident,  which  proved  a  popular 
editorial-page  feature  in  an  Eastern  city. 

If  these  stories  are  rewarded  with  a  chuckle,  a  smile,  a  tear,  or  a  happy 
memory,  they  have  served  their  purpose  well. 


112  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

BITS   OF  NATURAL   HISTORY 

BIRD  TO   LIE   IN   WOMAN'S  GRAVE 

Two  boon  companions  are  to  be  reunited  in  death.  For  many  years 
Mrs.  A.  W.  Burton  and  her  canary,  Dick,  lived  in  the  Congress  Hotel. 
But  separation  came  less  than  a  month  ago. 

The  canary,  in  a  fine  Japanese  cage  wrapped  with  a  screen  of  costly 
tapestry,  was  transferred  to  2330  Calumet  avenue  in  the  sundown  of  life. 
The  other  companion,  Mrs.  Burton,  grandmother  of  Burton  Holmes, 
traveler  and  lecturer,  was  buried  in  Rosehill.  She  died  at  the  age  of  94 
on  the  last  day  of  19 14. 

But  provision  for  the  canary  had  been  made.  She  left  instructions 
that  Dick  should  occupy  the  same  grave  with  her  in  Rosehill  after  death 
came  to  the  decrepit  bird. 

For  Dick  is  already  old  enough  to  vote.  He  is  twenty-one  years  old. 
Age  has  deprived  the  canary  of  almost  every  motion.  It  robbed  him  of 
his  sweet  songs  several  years  ago,  leaving  only  feeble  "  peeps." 

The  bird  is  so  old  that  he  no  longer  flies.  Lie  is  so  stiff  that  he  must 
be  lifted  upon  his  perch  at  night.  When  he  becomes  angry  Dick  hops 
backward.  One  eye  is  gone.  So  Dick  laboriously  turns  himself  around 
to  see  things  on  the  blind  side. 

For  a  bird  of  his  age,  Dick  possesses  a  wonderful  appetite.  His 
breakfast  consists  of  a  soft-boiled  egg,  celery  leaves,  a  slice  of  apple, 
and  seeds.    He  insists  on  a  cold  plunge. 

For  the  last  week  the  canary  has  taken  to  a  bed  of  cotton  in  the 
bottom  of  the  cage. 

The  request  of  Mrs.  Burton  to  place  Dick  in  her  grave  will  be 
complied  with  at  the  canary's  death.  — -  Chicago  Tribime 


HUMAiV-INTEREST  STORIES  113 

SALAMANDER   PARROT  TELLS  OF  TWO-DAY  STAY 
IN   FIRE 

If  Polly  had  been  a  chicken  when  he  was  caught  in  a  fire  that 
devasted  No.  366  Amsterdam  avenue  early  last  Tuesday  morning  he 
would  probably  have  been  either  baked,  broiled  or  fried.  But  he  was 
a  parrot  and  not  used  to  that  sort  of  thing,  so  he  lived  till  Thursday 
morning  in  the  ruins. 

Mrs.  Emma  Suckow  at  10.40  o'clock  that  morning  was  wandering 
through  her  dismantled  apartment  when  she  heard  a  hoarse  but  familiar 
voice  exclaim  sorrowfully : 

"  Gee  whizz  1  Gee  whizz  !  " 

Mrs.  Suckow  traced  the  voice  to  a  water-soaked  curtain.  There  she 
found  the  parrot.    Gently  picking  him  up,    she  said  : 

"  Poor  Polly  1  Poooooor  Polly  !  " 

"  Aw,  shut  up  !  "  the  parrot  snapped.    "  Polly  wants  a  cracker." 

Mrs.  Suckow  hustled  over  to  William  Mack's  bird  and  fish  emporium. 
No.  2193  Broadway,  and  asked  him  to  look  after  Polly  for  a  few  days. 
No  sooner  had  Mr.  Mack  learned  of  Polly's  fireproof  construction  than 
he  placed  the  bird  in  a  gilt  cage  on  a  gilt  stand  in  his  show  window. 
On  the  window  he  pasted  the  following : 

"  This  parrot  survived  the  awful  fire  at  No.  366  Amsterdam  avenue. 
This  bird  was  in  the  burning  building  two  nights.  Mr.  Suckow  found 
him  wandering  around  the  ruins  of  his  apartment." 

Before  Mack  did  this  the  parrot,  which  had  had  nothing  to  eat  except 
smoke  for  two  days,  overcame  a  natural  aversion  to  fish  food  and  tried 
to  gobble  a  pair  of  Pterophyllum  scalare,  value  $40. 

"  Hey  !  "  cried  Mr.  Mack.    "  You  '11  have  to  cut  that  out." 

"Aw,  shut  up  !  "  said  the  parrot.    "  The  eats  !    Bring  on  the  eats." 

After  the  parrot  had  swallowed  a  triple  portion  of  sunflower  seed 
hash  —  a  popular  dish  among  parrots — and  had  dmnk  three  cups  of 
water  he  smoothed  down  his  feathers  and  said : 

"  Gee  whizz  !  " 

In  spite  of  Polly's  bad  manners  a  woman  entered  the  store  while  a  re- 
porter for  the  World  was  interviewing  the  salamander  bird  yesterday 
afternoon  and  offered  Mr.  Mack  $100  for  him. 

"  And  if  anybody  offers  more  just  let  me  know  and  I  will  raise  my 
offer  accordingly,"  said  the  woman. 


114  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

But  Mr.  Mack  had  received  instructions  from  Mr.  Alfred  Suckow, 
Mrs.  Suckow,  ten-year-old  Charlie  Suckow  and  four-year-old  Freddie 
Suckow  —  the  whole  Suckow  family,  in  fact  —  that  Polly  is  n't  for  sale. 

"  It 's  like  this,"  said  Polly  to  the  reporter.  "  When  that  fire  broke  out, 
my  mistress  took  me  out  of  my  cage  and  started  to  run  out  of  doors 
with  me.  Darn  it !  It  was  cold  outside.  It  was  warm  inside,  and  getting 
warmer.    But  I  did  n't  mind  that. 

"  You  see,  I  am  a  Mexican  parrot.  I  lived  four  years  in  Mexico  before 
the  Suckows  got  me,  ten  years  ago.  I  am  used  to  hot  things  —  revolu- 
tions, tamales,  chile  con  came,  &c.  Besides  that,  I  am  something  of  a 
Christian  Scientist,  so  I  decided  to  stay  behind. 

"  When  it  appeared  to  get  too  hot  I  said  to  myself :  '  Heaven  is  good, 
nothing  hurts,'  and  concentrated  my  thoughts  on  Greenland.  After  that 
I  felt  positively  chilly. 

"  If  I  were  asked  what  I  thought  is  the  most  impressive  feature  of  my 
adventure  I  would  reply  that  it  showed  beyond  any  doubt  the  influence 
of  mind  over  matter. 

"  And  now  if  you  '11  run  along  and  leave  me  here  in  the  window  to  be 
admired  I  '11  be  much  obliged." — Donald  H.  Clarke,  in  New  York  World 


BUDDY,  THE  BUTTERFLY,  WINTERS  IN  ST.  PAUL 

St.  Paul,  Minn.,  Jan.  9. —  Buddy  was  found  three  weeks  ago  when 
the  Alleys  moved  into  the  home  at  No.  1738  Hague  avenue.  They 
thought  Buddy  was  dead,  he  seemed  so  indisposed  to  move.  Just  for 
luck,  however,  he  was  placed  on  a  plant.  The  summery  warmth  of  a 
near-by  radiator  aroused  a  consciousness  in  his  benumbed  little  head. 
Buddy  began  to  think  of  the  June  time ;  his  body  wiggled,  then  his 
brown  wings  —  more  than  three  inches  from  tip  to  tip  —  quivered  in 
answer  to  the  aroused  life  within. 

Someone  thought  a  little  nourishment  might  not  be  amiss.  Blossoms 
were  just  above  Buddy's  head,  but  he  did  n't  have  the  strength  to  reach 
them.  A  variety  of  breakfast  and  invalid  foods  were  suggested,  but 
their  use  was  deemed  inadvisable.  Then  came  the  idea  of  sugar  and 
water  for  Buddy. 

A  drop  was  placed  near  Buddy's  nose.  He  uncurled  his  tongue,  sucked 
a  mouthful  or  two,  then  wiggled  in  glee.  Soon  his  wings  swept  their  full 
arc  and  Buddy  rose  to  a  lace  curtain,  a  real  live  butterfly.    For  a  month 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  ,115 

now  he  has  been  living,  and  A.  W.  Alley  and  his  mother  and  sister  have 
made  him  a  household  pet. 

Buddy  has  a  little  bed  on  the  radiator  where,  satiated  with  sweets,  he 
sleeps  for  six  hours  after  every  meal.  His  meals  come  once  every  two 
or  three  days,  whenever  he  uncurls  his  tongue  and  signals  for  food.  His 
diet  has  been  changed  to  honey  now,  about  a  drop  being  fed  to  him  at 
a  meal. 

Mr.  Alley's  sister  has  charge  of  this  feature  of  the  butterfly's  life. 
Buddy  roosting  on  her  finger  during  the  honeyfest.  He  likes  the  Japa- 
nese garden  on  the  stand  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  has  made  friends 
with  all  its  inhabitants.  Buddy  has  only  one  fault,  a  glaring  "  white  way  " 
fault  —  he  's  out  every  night  following  the  bright  lights.  The  indirect 
lighting  system  was  his  downfall.  —  New  York  World 


A  DOG   MIND   READER 

Hector  is  a  wizard.  He  is  only  a  dog,  but  he  is  a  mind  reader  just 
the  same.  He  's  the  dog  that  has  put  canines  on  the  psychological  map. 
Hector  is  a  little  white  French  poodle,  and  is  owned  by  C.  J.  Tryon,  of 
Oatman,  Ariz.  Besides  possessing  the  ordinary  dog's  intelligence,  he  has 
such  an  uncanny  sense  of  human  understanding  that  Prof.  Babcock,  of 
the  University  of  California,  has  expressed  a  desire  to  make  him  the 
father  of  a  breed  of  dogs  in  an  effort  to  see  whether  his  mental  faculties 
can  be  transmitted  in  successive  generations. 

It  goes  without  saying,  of  course,  that  Hector  can  perform  all  the 
ordinary  tricks,  such  as  rolling  over,  begging,  "  talking,"  telling  stories, 
praying  and  the  like.  He  can  do  any  of  these  things,  either  singly  or  in 
combination,  when  told  by  his  master. 

Mr.  Tryon  declares  that  the  dog  knows  the  meaning  of  fifty  or  more 
words  which  he  employs  in  giving  his  commands.  He  argues  that  the 
dog's  obedience  to  a  command  is  not  simply  an  automatic  response  of 
the  instinctive  class,  such  as  that  which  prompts  a  dog  to  scurry  for 
shelter  when  you  kick  at  him.  He  thinks  that  the  dog  understands  the 
very  meaning  of  the  words  put  to  him. 

This  idea  he  demonstrated  through  the  agency  of  a  waste  basket  the 
other  day,  telling  the  dog  first  to  pull  it  over,  as  prompted  by  one  of  the 
observers,  and  then  to  push  it  over.  Again  he  laid  a  knife  and  a  bunch 
of  keys  side  by  side  on  a  desk. 


ii6  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

■'  Which  one  do  you  want  him  to  point  to?  "  asked  Mr.  Tryon.  Some- 
one suggested  the  keys. 

"  All  right,  Hector,  touch  the  keys,"  he  commanded,  and  Hector  laid 
a  light,  affectionate  paw  on  the  bunch  of  keys.  When  told  to  touch  the 
knife  he  promptly  did  so. 

"  There,"  resumed  Mr.  Tryon,  "  I  can  teach  him  the  meaning  of  any 
words  like  that  in  a  day  or  two,  just  as  though  he  were  a  child,  and  he 
will  understand  them  always  afterward." 

But  Hector's  most  remarkable  accomplishment  is  his  "  thought  read- 
ing," or  whatever  else  one  may  elect  to  call  it. 

The  dog  was  placed  behind  his  bell-ringing  contrivance,  and  his  mas- 
ter asked  someone  to  suggest  a  number.  The  figure  selected  was  24, 
and  Hector,  when  commanded,  lifted  his  paw  to  the  key  and  tapped  out 
24  strokes  of  the  bell  as  though  it  were  a  telegraph  key.  The  operation 
was  repeated  several  times  with  other  numbers  and  without  error. 

The  next  step  was  for  someone  to  suggest  a  number  to  Mr.  Tr)-on 
quietly.  The  latter,  without  speaking  it  aloud,  would  concentrate  his 
mind  on  the  number,  and  after  a  few  seconds  Hector  would  lift  his  paw 
again  and  tap  the  number  on  the  bell. 

"  Now  think  of  a  number  between  9  and  15  and  don't  tell  me  what 
it  is,  but  just  think  of  it  hard,"  the  amateur  trainer  said  to  one  of  the 
audience,  determined  to  prove  to  the  skeptical  that  he  had  no  electrical 
signal  or  movement  which  communicated  his  message  to  the  dog. 

This  time  Hector's  eyelids  dropped  and  he  sat  motionless  for  nearly 
half  a  minute.  Suddenly  he  lifted  his  paw  and  tapped  out  the  number, 
much  to  the  chagrin  and  admiration  of  the  crowd. 

Only  twice  did  the  dog  fail  in  his  act,  and  once  he  immediately  cor- 
rected his  error  when  his  master  shook  his  head.  The  other  time  it 
was  on  the  number  12  that  he  tripped  up.  First  he  rang  13,  then 
9  and  then  15,  but  it  developed  that  another  man  in  the  crowd  had 
been  concentrating  his  mind  on  the  number  13  while  the  first  had 
thought  of  the  number  12,  and  tliis  might  have  been  accountable  for 
the  mistake. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  to  explain  this  phenomenon,"  said  Mr.  Tr}-on, 
when  asked  for  his  opinion.  "  I  am  no  scientist,  and  so  have  no  right 
to  say  that  it  is  a  case  of  thought  transference,  but  I  have  read  a  num- 
ber of  books  on  the  subject,  and  experts  say  that  a  medium  for  thought- 
reading  need  not  be  a  highly  developed  brain." 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  1 17 

Hector  also  proved  to  be  quite  adept  at  adding,  subtracting  and  mul- 
tiplying figures  given  him.  Even  problems  of  square  root  v^^ere  success- 
fully solved  by  him,  but  his  master  explains  that  he  unconsciously  extracts 
the  square  root  of  each  number  when  giving  it  to  the  dog  and  the  latter 
senses  the  smaller  number. 

At  any  rate,  it  must  have  become  apparent  that  Hector  is  worth  the 
$7.50  which  Mr.  Tryon  once  paid  for  him  in  Los  Angeles.  The  little 
fellow  is  now  two  years  of  age,  having  been  "  in  training  "  under  Mr. 
Tryon's  direction  for  twenty  months. 

He  is  not  a  stage  dog  and  never  will  be,  if  his  owner  remains  his  boss. 
The  latter  is  a  mining  engineer  and  trains  the  dog  for  his  own  amusement. 
—  Detroit  Tribune 

GOOD   DOG   FIGHT  STOPS  PICTURE  SHOW 

People  are  not  the  only  civilized  animals  who  have  their  "  movie  " 
favorites  or  wage  war  without  regard  to  the  neutrals. 

The  proof :  Two  lonesome  bachelor  curs  slipped  into  the  Varsity 
Theater  Monday  night  to  pass  a  pleasant  hour  or  two  watching  the 
agony  of  "  The  Thief."  Before  long  they  started  swapping  opinions  on 
the  relative  beauty  of  the  star  and  the  clock  near  the  screen.  In  about 
one  half  minute  war  had  been  declared  and  the  neutrals  were  in  the 
thick  of  the  fight. 

A  girl  broke  her  umbrella,  a  man  broke  his  cane,  and  the  dogs  broke 
up  the  show  before  the  fight  was  declared  a  draw.  After  order  had 
been  restored  the  management  showed  its  thoughtfulness  by  throwing 
on  the  screen,  "  After  the  fight  both  dogs  appear  to  be  all  right." — 
University  Daily  Kansan 

WRESTLER  TOSSES  STAGE  BEAR 

V.  K,  (Snips)  Hancock,  former  University  of  Washington  "'  W " 
wrestler  at  145  pounds,  living  at  the  Alpha  Sigma  Phi  house,  yesterday 
afternoon  accepted  the  challenge  from  the  stage  of  the  Empress  Theater 
and  threw  the  bear.  Big  Jim. 

Big  Jim  is  a  grizzly,  big  to  the  extent  of  900  pounds,  and  is  seldom 
thrown.  His  first  defeat  in  Seattle  came  yesterday,  when  Hancock  took 
a  notion  that  he  would  like  to  originate  a  new  Bear  Hug. 


Il8  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

After  the  collegian  had  mauled  the  bear  around  for  five  minutes  he 
succeeded  in  getting  what  he  and  the  audience  considered  a  fall,  but  this 
was  denied  on  a  technicality  by  Big  Jim's  manager.  After  five  or  ten 
more  minutes  he  concluded  the  match  with  a  head  chancery  and  arm  drag. 

"  The  bear  knows  as  much  about  wrestling,"  Hancock  said  this  morning, 
"  as  many  men  in  the  wrestling  game.  When  you  clinch  with  him  he 
gets  his  forepaws  across  your  shoulders  and  puts  several  hundred  pounds 
weight  on  you.  If  he  doesn't  succeed  in  bringing  you  down  with  his 
weight,  he  gets  a  head  chancery,  and  hugs  you  tight  with  one  arm  while 
he  reaches  down  with  the  other  and  tries  to  knock  your  legs  out  from 
under  you.  He  works  the  half  Nelson  and  a  number  of  other  holds,  and 
all  around  is  a  pretty  hard  customer  to  deal  with. 

"  He  is  n't  very  gentle,  either,  and  at  times  when  he  gets  cornered  begins 
to  use  football  tactics.  It  was  a  pretty  hard  job  to  get  him,  as  I  was  n't 
allowed  to  use  holds  below  the  waist  —  if  that 's  what  a  bear  's  got  —  but 
finally  when  I  got  him  down  on  the  floor  and  got  a  head  chancery  and 
arm  drag  on  him  and  twisted  his  front  paw  a  little  and  kicked  his  other 
legs  loose  from  the  floor,  it  was  n't  so  hard.  Of  course  I  had  to  keep 
out  of  the  way  of  his  paws." 

The  bear's  manager  objected  to  Hancock's  handling  the  bear  so 
roughly,  and  stated  that  the  bear  was  n't  thrown  fairly,  because  his  leg 
was  twisted,  but  the  fall  was  allowed.  The  manager,  however,  offered 
Hancock  $50  if  he  could  throw  the  bear  again,  and  Hancock  is  undecided 
about  taking  the  offer,  as  he  is  worried  over  whether  or  not  this  would 
make  him  a  professional. —  Seattle  Sun 


.   SUKEY  COULDN'T  CHEW  HER  CUD 

If  Thomas  Morrison's  pet  cow  had  n't  neglected  the  dairy  business 
for  the  banking  and  junk  business,  she  would  still  be  munching  her  hay. 

It  was  a  find  of  17  cents  that  started  her  on  her  downward  career  — 
three  nickels  and  two  pennies  which  a  bam  boy  had  placed  in  a  line  on 
the  top  of  a  fence  to  gloat  over,  and  then  forgot  in  the  face  of  some 
greater  excitement.  Sukcy  nosed  around  and  swallowed  the  coins.  Her 
taste  for  metal  thus  whetted,  she  proceeded  to  swallow  a  number  of 
wire  nails,  pulling  them  out  of  the  fence,  and  wound  up  her  repast  by 
taking  into  her  system  5  feet  of  steel  wire.  It  was  the  wire  that  tangled 
her  up.     It  insisted  in  sojourning  in  all  three  stomachs  at  once.  Sukey 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  1 19 

found  her  wires  were  crossed  when  she  tried  to  chew  her  cud,  so  she 
rang  off  and  died. 

That  was  on  Tuesday.  Wednesday  an  autopsy  was  held,  and  the 
concrete  evidences  of  the  facts  here  related  was  found  in  her  little  tummy 
—  in  all  three  of  them,  in  fact.  —  Greenville  (Pa.)  Correspondence  in 
Springfield  (Afo.)  Republican 


HATTIE  HAS  HER  NAILS  TRIMMED 

Hattie,  the  elephant  in  the  Central  Park  Menagerie,  recovered  from 
a  week  of  ill  humor  and  bitter  complaining,  when  the  hangnails  that  have 
tormented  her  were  removed  by  two  keepers.  Bill  Snyder  and  Bob  Burton, 
who  are  expert  animal  manicurists,  as  well  as  experts  in  many  other 
things  pertaining  to  captives  from  the  jungles.  Hattie's  temper  had  been 
a  sore  trial  to  the  keepers  all  the  week.  For  a  time  they  thought  she 
was  going  to  develop  a  disposition  that  might  necessitate  calling  in  an 
executioner.  But  when  Bob  Burton  took  a  look  at  Hattie  yesterday  he 
quickly  discovered  the  cause  of  her  woe. 

Hattie  knew  what  was  to  happen  much  better  than  the  throng  follow- 
ing the  two  keepers  when  they  arrived.  Many  of  the  crowd  thought  a 
turbulent  animal  was  to  be  killed.  But  Hattie  made  the  place  ring  with 
her  joyous  trumpeting.  She  followed  the  keepers  docilely  to  an  open 
space  and  stuck  out  one  of  her  feet  at  command,  placing  it  on  the  small 
operating  bench.  Then  Snyder  used  a  draw  shave  on  the  nails,  and  then 
a  file,  and  lastly  coarse  sandpaper. 

When  the  front  feet  were  finished  Hattie  obediently  rolled  on  her  back 
and  permitted  her  hind  feet  to  be  manicured.  W^hen  the  nails  were  oiled 
and  polished  the  elephant  uttered  grunts  of  pleasure. — New  York  Press 


MRS.  GOOSE  DINED  ON   CHRISTMAS  GOLDFISH 

"  Whether  this  will  prove  to  be  the  goose  that  laid  the  golden  ^^^  I 
do  not  know,  but  she  may  lay  goldfish,"  said  Proprietor  Goldstein,  of  a 
motion-picture  theater  at  Patchogue,  L.I.,  last  night  to  a  houseful  of 
Christmas  pleasure  seekers. 

Twenty  live  prizes,  including  a  fat  goose  and  several  globes  of  gold- 
fish, had  been  provided  by  the  management  for  its  patrons.  Ollie  Wood, 
who  impersonated  Santa  Claus,  placed  the  globes  with  the  fish  in  a  closet. 


120  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

The  goose  was  roaming  around  generally,  and  w  hilc  Kris  was  distrib- 
uting other  gifts  from  the  stage  Mrs.  Goose  waddled  into  the  closet  and 
took  her  own  Christmas  present  by  gobbling  up  all  the  goldfish. 

She  was  condemned  to  die.  —  New  York  World 

Editor's  Note.  The  interest  that  people  show  in  animals  is  somewhat 
difficult  to  explain.  One  theory  is  that  the  human  family  is  but  a  group  of 
educated  bipeds  and  therefore  sees  some  of  its  primitive  habits  and  physical 
traits  reflected  in  the  life  and  antics  of  beasts  and  birds.  An  observer  at  the 
Zoo  will  find  the  monkey  house  the  center  of  a  curious  throng,  all  eyes  intent 
upon  the  almost  human  movements  and  postures  of  the  caged  animals.  This 
same  interest  is  transferred  to  the  printed  record  of  animal  life.  Certainly  the 
love  of  pets  is  firmly  rooted  in  children  and  persists  in  men  and  women. 
Women  have  a  special  fondness  for  cats  and  birds,  while  men  make  friends  of 
dogs  and  horses.  This  human  response  is  well  illustrated  in  the  stories  "  Bird 
to  Lie  in  Woman's  Grave,"  "  Salamander  Parrot  Tells  of  Two-Days  Stay  in 
Fire,"  and  "  Buddy  the  Butterfly  Winters  in  St.  Paul." 

Interest  in  animals  is  heightened  when  men  are  pitted  against  them  for 
the  mastery,  as  found  in  "  Wrestler  Tosses  Stage  Bear." 

The  intelligence  of  "  A  Dog  Mind  Reader,"  and  his  curious  mistakes  in 
mathematics,  also  reveal  this  innate  response  to  the  almost  human  attributes 
of  a  poodle.    The  other  stories  are  self-explanatory. 


THE  WEATHER 

SLIPPERY,  SLOPPY,  SLEETY  STREETS,  SLIDING,  GLIDING 
FALLING   FEETS 

With  glitter  and  glare 
And  treacherous  sheen 
The  iciest  ice 
That  ever  was  seen, 
Came  down  from  above 
And  grew  up  from  below 
Till  folks  just  afoot 
Could  n't  tell  how  to  go  ; 
And  those  in  machines 
Or  trolley  cars  riding 
Were  deathly  afeered 
Of  downright  colliding. 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  121 

The  rain,  sleet  and  slush, 
All  over  the  ground, 
Were  comixt  and  commingled 
As  heaps  of  folks  found, 
When  their  feet  went  aloft 
And  the  rest  of  their  frames 
Hit  a  solid  foundation 
Of  diversified  names. 
With  streaks  of  blue  blazes 
And  sputter  and  fuss 
The  trolleys  got  by 
In  spite  of  the  muss, 
But  handles  were  frozen 
And  steps  were  a  fright 
'  T  was  as  much  as  yer  worth 
To  attempt  to  alight. 
The  chains  on  the  autos 
Bit  deep  in  the  glitter 
And  the  auto  without  'em 
Was  a  sure  enough  quitter ; 
At  skiddin'  of  comers 
A  plenty  was  seen 
And  everyone  called 
The  weather  man  mean. 
Laws,  he  could  n't  help  if 
A  chunk  of  creation  — 
The  north-eastern  part  of 
This  'ere  great  nation  — 
Was  bound  up  in  sleet 
And  shrouded  in  ice  — 
The  boys  who  like  skatin' 
Consider  it  nice. 
Columbus  just  got 
An  over  large  share 
Of  what  was  prevailin' 
Almost  everywhere. 
'  T  will  probably  rain 
For  most  of  today 


122  TYPICAL  NEWSl'Al'KR  STORIES 

With  a  chance  that  the  ice 
Will  get  melted  away. 
After  that,  well,  who  knows  ? 
For  in  prognostication 
There  's  heaps  that  resembles 
Plain  falsification. 
Put  spikes  in  your  boots 
Or  wear  rubber  shoen 
When  attempting  to  walk. 
Know  what  you  are  doin' ; 
You  '11  get  through  today 
And  be  ripe  for  the  morrow 
A  day  nearer  Christmas 
And  no  reason  to  sorrow. 

—  T.  T.  Frankenberg,  in  Ohio  State  Jour7ial 


ROBIN   PROFFERS  PROOF  OF  SPRING 

A  robin  chirping  lustily  in  a  maple  tree  out  in  the  country  northeast 
of  Columbus  and  a  clear,  warm  sunrise  yesterday  gave  evidence  concur- 
rently that  March  was  starting  springtime  17  days  in  advance  of  the 
almanac  schedule.  It  was  n't  the  March  day  bluff,  either,  for  the  fine 
weather  kept  up  all  day  long,  and  the  57  varieties  usually  on  hand  this 
month  were  conspicuous  by  their  absence. 

A  hurdy-gurdy  man  grinding  out  a  jerky  tune,  the  fizz  and  gurgle  of 
the  soda  fountain  awakened  from  winter's  vacationing,  and  happy-faced 
children  skipping  the  rope  or  playing  marbles  were  additional  signs. 

East  Broad  street  was  transformed  over  night  into  an  eddying  film 
of  automobiles  and  carriages,  all  filled  with  folk  freed  from  tight  houses 
and  a  winter's  seclusion. 

City  streets  were  thronged  with  pedestrians.  The  weather  was  too 
balmy  and  inviting  for  people  to  remain  long  indoors.  Maid  and  matron, 
decked  in  all  the  bewitching  shades,  were  out  on  pleasure  bent,  inciden- 
tally paying  long-deferred  visits  to  the  stores  to  see  the  new  things  in 
spring  flufferies.  Men  enjoyed  the  agreeable  change  in  the  temperature, 
but  were  wise  enough  to  wear  their  overcoats  for  fear  the  weather  man 
had  made  a  mistake. 


HUMAN-INTEREST  STORIES  123 

It  was  an  ideal  day  and  all  Columbus  people  are  so  pleased  with  the 
sample  offered  that  they  are  unanimous  in  their  clamors  for  more  off  the 
same  bolt.   It 's  up  to  the  official  who  weighs  sunshine  in  the  conning  tower. 

But  perhaps  the  most  trustworthy  happening  to  predicate  upon  was 
the  arrest  of  Joe  Jones  by  Officers  Remmert  and  Schneider,  for  stealing 
a  lawn  mower  from  the  yard  of  Dr.  E.  B.  Fullerton,  in  East  State  street. 
Joe,  it  was  charged,  sold  the  machine  for  25  cents. 

In  spite  of  all  this,  however,  yesterday  was  not  as  warm  as  usual  for 
that  date.  Mean  temperature  was  ;^;^,  which  was  two  degrees  less  than 
normal.  Maximum  was  40,  and  lowest  25.  There  was  absolutely  no 
precipitation,  the  first  time  since  Feb.  28,  and  all  indications  of  a  flood 
which  were  present  a  few  days  ago  had  disappeared.  There  was  a  show 
of  still  warmer  weather  at  7  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  thermometer 
stood  at  36,  which  was  8  degrees  higher  than  at  7  in  the  morning. — 
H.  F.  H.,  in  0/tw  State  Joiiriial 

Editor's  Note.  The  weather  is  a  universal  topic  of  conversation.  What- 
ever a  man's  occupation  or  his  social  rank  he  is  concerned  with  the  questions, 
"Will  it  rain  to-morrow.''  "  or  "  What  is  the  prospect  for  snow.?  "  Everyone 
has  an  opinion,  everyone  reacts  to  a  fall  or  a  rise  in  the  temperature.  Some 
people  like  snow,  others  crave  long  days  of  sunshine,  while  a  few  delight  to 
"slosh"  through  the  rain.  In  some  instances  a  change  in  the  weather  may 
mean  poor  business  or  loss  of  money ;  in  the  majority  of  cases  it  is  the  one 
hub  around  which  all  people  gather. 

The  foregoing  verses,  descriptive  of  December  weather,  excited  more  com- 
ment in  the  newspaper  in  which  they  were  published  than  hundreds  of  other 
more  serious  productions.  They  show  how  novelty  of  treatment  will  often 
tickle  a  reader's  fancy,  while  more  conventional  methods  fail  to  stir  his  feelings. 

The  second  example,  of  the  approach  of  spring,  is  really  a  succession  of 
moving-picture  films,  little  glimpses  of  city  streets.  The  story  has  the  merit  of 
being  concrete  and  objective  and  enlivens  a  lot  of  fact-details  by  the  addition 
of  sights  and  sounds. 


VI 

IX  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS 

A  news  story  is  a  charcoal  sketch  ;  a  feature  story  a  finished 
portrait,  rounded  out  with  shade  and  color.  It  follows  in  the  wake 
of  the  news,  selecting  some  high  spot,  some  feature  worthy  of 
more  exhaustive  treatment.  That  feature  may  be  a  person,  an 
event,  a  holiday,  a  season  of  the  year,  or  it  may  be  a  new  develop- 
ment in  warfare,  a  scientific  invention,  or  a  sociological  experiment. 
If  men  and  women  are  intensely  absorbed  in  the  variations  of  a  fam- 
iliar topic,  sketched  from  day  to  day,  that  is  sufficient  excuse  for  fresh 
activity  on  the  part  of  a  gifted  writer  and  a  skillful  photographer. 

The  readable  feature  story  is  hung  upon  a  peg  of  news.  Like 
news  it  must  be  timely,  novel,  unexpected.  It  may  inform  or  it 
may  simply  divert ;  but  it  must  be  made  interesting  from  the  start. 

The  introductory  paragraph,  in  particular,  should  arrest  attention 
and  create  an  atmosphere  for  the  story  that  follows.  Generally, 
this  lead  may  be  linked  to  a  news  event  with  which  the  reader 
is  already  familiar.    Here  is  an  illustration  : 

Can  the  British  Isles  be  successfully  invaded?  Is  it  possible  to  land  a 
foreign  army  on  the  coast  of  England,  Ireland,  Scotland  or  Wales,  and  make 
use  of  it  to  a  victorious  finish  after  such  a  landing  ? 

Readers  are  interested  in  such  a  cjuery  and  in  the  historical 
sketch  which  follows  it,  because  the  cable  had  just  brought  the 
news  that  German  ships  had  bombarded  the  coast  towns  of  the 
"tight  little  island,"  and  that  history  might  be  repeated  by  an 
invasion  of  the  British  Isles.  While  only  in  a  slight  sense  newsy, 
this  article  wins  a  careful  reading  because  a  news  story  has  blazed 
a  path  for  it. 

The  types  of  feature  stories  may  be  roughly  divided,  accord- 
ing to  content,  into  three  distinct  groups  :  (i)  the  informative, 
(2)  the  pseudo-scientific,  and  (3)  the  human-interest,  sometimes 

124 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  1 25 

termed  the  '"  feminine."  All  three  find  places  in  the  newspaper, 
particularly  in  the  Sunday  magazine  section,  where  ample  space  is 
available  for  pictorial  embellishments  and  more  time  allowed  for 
literary  craftsmanship. 

In  the  first  division  the  following  examples  may  be  cited  :  "  The 
First  Illustrated  Bible,"  "A  Medieval  Cathedral  in  a  Modern 
City,"  "  Early  Attempts  to  Conserve  World  Peace,"  "  The  Shell- 
ing of  Famous  Cathedrals  in  War  Time,"  "  Salem's  Half-Moon 
Fire."  The  second  group  presents  endless  possibilities  :  "'  How  to 
Live  to  be  as  Old  as  Methuselah,"  "  How  a  Torpedo  Destroyer  is 
Constructed,"  "'  How  a  Connecticut  Man  Supplied  New  York  with 
Water,"  "  How  Moving  Pictures  Are  Produced  Under  the  Sea," 
"'  Fantastic  Schemes  for  the  Invasion  of  England,"  "  Trying  to 
Stamp  Out  Hydrophobia  in  New  York,"  "How  Antique  Furniture 
Is  Made  at  Grand  Rapids,  Michigan."  The  third  group  makes 
generous  use  of  remarkable  adventures,  wonderful  pieces  of 
heroism,  and  somewhat  extravagant  tales  of  love,  romance,  and 
marriage,  all  profusely  decorated  with  an  array  of  photographs. 
These  subjects  may  be  taken  as  typical :  "'  The  Story  of  a  Boy 
Who  Has  Run  Away  294  Times,"  ""What  Mayor  Harrison  Eats 
for  Breakfast,"  "The  New  Type  of  Chorus  Girl,"  '"What  Does 
a  Woman  Love  in  a  Man  ? "  "  Some  White  House  Babies," 
"The  Most  Beautiful  Woman  in  Chicago,"  ""Is  Billy  Sunday  a 
Fakir  or  a  Jeremiah  }  " 

The  skillful  fashioning  of  the  feature  story  requires  imagination, 
an  original  adaptation  of  an  old  theme,  a  logical  development  of 
ideas,  and  a  sustained  effort  to  make  every  part  of  the  narrative 
interesting,  even  though  it  may  deal  with  an  abstract  subject.  The 
writer  should  endeavor  to  fascinate  rather  than  to  dismay.  Since 
most  of  these  tales  are  long,  often  filling  an  entire  page  in  a  Sun- 
day paper,  they  require  careful  planning  and  a  deliberate  search 
for  the  most  effective  method  of  presentation.  Beginners  should 
block  out  their  thought  divisions  before  they  set  a  line  on  paper. 

Within  recent  years  a  reaction  has  set  in  against  the  superabun- 
dance of  feature  stories,  many  of  which  are  padded  with  fictitious 
details,  although  they  bear  the  brand  of  authenticity.  This  reaction 
has  taken  place  because  of  an  overemphasis  on  this  type  of  story. 


126  TVriCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

The  majority  of  readers  want  straight  news  Jirst,  "  freak  "  features 
aftcnvard.  The  enormous  supply  of  real  news  no  longer  makes  it 
necessary  to  use  feature  stories  as  "  fillers."  They  still  bring 
entertainment,  however,  to  subscribers  who  have  the  leisure  and 
inclination  to  read  timely  articles  that  center  in  subjects  of  popular 
concern.  In  many  homes  newspaper  feature  stories  take  the  place 
of  magazines  and  books. 

HERE'S  GOODBY  TO  AN   OLD,  OLD   FRIEND 

[The  original  Union  Depot,  opened  in  1S69,  was  partly  burned  in  1875.  After 
using  a  temporary  wooden  shed  about  a  year,  removal  was  made  to  the  depot  of 
the  Kansas  Pacific  and  Missouri  Pacific  Railways  at  State  Line,  near  Twelfth 
street.  The  original  structure  was  of  frame  and  stood  near  where  later  the  west  end 
of  the  Ninth  street  incline  bridge  was.  The  Union  Depot,  which  saw  the  peopling 
of  the  West,  the  one  now  about  to  be  abandoned,  was  opened  April  7,  1878.] 

The  old  Union  Depot  has  seen  things  in  her  36  years.  Yes,  and 
made  history,  too.  Through  her  doors  have  streamed  the  blanketed 
Indian,  being  moved  from  reservation  to  reservation  by  the  government ; 
the  cowboy,  clacking  in  his  high-heeled  boots  on  the  tiles ;  the  high  silk- 
hatted  "  confidence  "  man  and  the  gambler ;  the  negro,  up  from  the 
South  to  seek  a  home  in  Kansas ;  the  settler  on  the  last  lap  of  his  race 
for  a  home  in  newly  opened  Oklahoma ;  the  Mennonite  in  his  sheepskin, 
just  out  of  Russia  and  bound  for  Kansas ;  immigrants  of  every  Old 
World  race.  Soldiers,  sailors,  globe  trotters,  lovers,  murderers,  preachers, 
train  bandits  —  of  such  has  been  her  shifting  population. 

Men  now  big  in  the  life  of  the  city,  others  who  own  league  on  league 
of  rich  farm  land  in  the  empire  whose  threshold  she  was  —  they  have 
sat  on  the  hard  benches  in  her  waiting  rooms,  immigrant  boys  from  the 
Old  World  and  from  the  East,  and  been  awed  by  the  babel  of  tongues. 

A  thousand  fashions  in  footgear  have  worn  thin  the  tiles  in  her  waiting 
rooms  and  lobby.  She  has  seen  the  damsel  of  the  late  '70's  and  the 
early  '8o's  in  her  "  tilters  "  —  those  funny  half  hoops  which  slanted  up- 
ward frorri  the  waist  in  the  rear,  crinoline  covered.  And  she  has  seen 
the  immigrant  woman,  stolid  faced,  in  shawl  and  hobnailed  shoes.  She 
has  seen  the  fop  of  the  early  '8o's  in  his  bell-crowned  hat  and  lemon- 
colored  trousers.  And  she  has  seen  the  dandies  of  every  period  of 
clothes  that  succeeded. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  127 

When  the  Mennonites  went  through  (and  the  Old  Depot,  you  may 
take  it,  was  pretty  well  inured  to  strange  sights)  she  must  have  known  a 
quickening  interest.  Out  of  Russia  they  came.  God-fearing,  peace-loving, 
to  make  their  homes  in  Kansas.  What  hopes  they  cherished,  of  freedom 
to  live  and  work  and  worship  in  peace.  And  the  Old  Depot,  where  they 
changed  cars  for  the  last  lap  of  their  journey,  was  the  doorway  of  their 
promised  land. 

They  came  in  groups  and  families,  with  money  in  their  pockets  and 
sheepskins  on  their  backs.  And  they  kept  coming  for  three  years,  '79, 
'80  and  '81. 

The  women  were  shawled  and  bonneted ;  their  skirts  were  plaited  all 
the  way  'round  at  the  waist.  The  Old  Depot  had  never  seen  anything 
like  them  before.  The  nearest  were  scattered  groups  of  Quakers  from 
Pennsylvania.  The  shaggy-haired  men  wore  great  coats  of  sheepskin, 
with  the  wool  on  the  inside.  And  the  little  girls,  no  matter  how  tender 
their  years,  were  replicas  of  mother,  as  were  the  little  boys  of  father. 
The  Old  Depot  must  have  smiled  in  kindly  amusement  at  the  sturdy 
folk  she  was  passing  along  to  people  her  empire  with. 

The  Oklahoma  settlers,  too  !  Many  of  them  made  the  Old  Depot 
their  stopping  place  while  awaiting  the  word  that  Oklahoma  was 
"  opened."  Into  the  Old  Depot  they  came,  group  after  group  of  men 
from  all  the  world,  bearing  bundles  of  household  goods,  shepherding 
their  families.  It  was  the  time  before  the  "  run."  Men  who  sat  in  the 
Old  Depot  then,  with  all  they  owned  in  the  world  in  the  bundles  at 
their  feet,  now  have  fine  houses  and  fat  lands  and  money  in  the  bank. 

Not  all  the  immigration  movements  were  as  happy  as  those,  however. 
There  was  that  time,  along  in  1879,  when  "  Cap"  Singleton,  an  unscru- 
pulous negro,  brought  up  from  Alabama  two  steamboat  loads  of  negroes, 
promising  them  homes  here  at  the  mouth  of  the  Kaw.  They  were 
plantation  darkies,  absolutely  uneducated,  mere  animals.  Happy  they 
were,  despite  all  their  hardships,  a  grinning  mob.  But  they  were  hungry. 
And  worse,  many  of  the  women  had  only  gunnysacks  for  clothing,  while 
the  children  went  entirely  unclothed. 

Somehow,  the  Old  Depot  has  always  been  possessed  of  a  kindly  spirit, 
and  she  has  bred  the  same  in  her  attendants.  F.  S.  Doggett,  proprietor 
of  the  Blossom  House  and  a  railroad  man  then,  urged  all  the  men  he 
could  find  about  the  depot  —  conductors,  brakemen,  freight  clerks,  ticket 
agents,  depot  ushers — to  bring  socks,  shoes,  coats,  trousers,  hats,  clothing 


128  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

of  all  sorts  which  they  no  longer  needed,  the  next  day,  which  they  did. 
Then  the  negroes  were  outfitted. 

Other  negroes,  later,  came  up  from  the  South  through  the  Depot. 
Democratic  as  she  was,  over  that  influx  of  immigrants  the  Old  Depot 
must  have  grown  grave.  Today,  their  descendants  can  be  found  living 
in  "  The  Willows,"  along  the  Missouri  River  on  the  Kansas  side,  their 
huts  made  of  willow  growths  laced  together  with  young  willow  withes 
—  a  wattled  African  village. 

But,  if  hospitable  to  those  darkies,  how  much  more  so  the  Old  Depot 
has  been  to  others !  The  tales  of  aid  extended  to  the  needy,  within  her 
walls,  are  legion.  Just  the  other  day  a  woman  out  of  southeastern 
Europe  was  sent  $60  by  her  husband,  a  laborer  in  California,  when  she 
arrived  at  New  York.  The  money  was  to  transport  her  and  the  baby  to 
California.  But  the  baby  died  in  New  York  and  the  money  paid  for  its 
funeral.  So  the  mother,  unable  to  speak  any  except  her  own  tongue, 
traveled  from  New  York  to  Kansas  City  without  letting  her  penniless 
plight  be  known.  She  was  almost  starved  when  she  arrived  at  the  Old 
Depot,  and  when  she  learned  California  lay  four  days'  journey  beyond 
she  fainted.  The  Old  Depot  beckoned  and  a  compatriot  of  the  woman  — 
a  merchant  on  Union  avenue  —  gave  her  a  basket  of  food  and  $12,  on 
which  she  completed  her  journey. 

That  is  just  a  sample  of  the  kindliness  that,  for  thirty-six  years,  has 
been  part  and  parcel  of  the  Old  Depot  squatted  there  in  her  network 
of  tracks  under  the  hill. 

Humor  and  Tragedy  !  Tragedy  and  Humor !  They  are  writ  into 
every  tile  in  her  floors  and  every  brick  of  her  walls.  The  old-timers 
along  Union  avenue  — -  the  Bowery  and  the  Barbary  Coast  of  the 
Middle  West  —  all  the  way  from  McArdle's  little,  grimy  bookstore, 
with  its  cats  scrabbling  among  the  dusty  books,  to  the  last  saloon  in 
the  "  Row,"  these  old-timers  have  an  unending  store  of  stories  about 
the  Old  Depot. 

There,  for  instance,  is  ''  Spooners'  Corner,"  a  story  in  itself ;  a 
shadowed  corner  in  the  long-drawn-out  waiting  room,  where  maids 
kissed  men  farewell,  and  kissed  again,  ere  men  adventured  on,  perhaps 
never  to  return. 

And,  speaking  of  kisses,  the  Old  Depot  holds  the  memories  of  many 
and  many  of  every  sort.  There  were  those  of  maids  and  men.  There 
were  those  of  dry-eyed  fathers,  clumsily  caressing  motherless  children. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS         1 29 

There  were  those,  on  the  other  hand,  of  mothers  crying  over  fatherless 
bairns.  There  were  the  kisses  of  formal  farewell.  And  there  were  those 
of  mother  greeting  the  prodigal  or  parting  from  the  son  who  was  going 
on.  And  these  last  were  the  best  of  all.  Oh,  the  Depot  has  seen  a 
main  of  kissing  in  her  day ! 

Then  there  is  the  "  Confidence  Corner."  And  this  has  heard  more 
tales  of  heartbreak  than  can  be  conceived  of.  It  is  in  the  angle  where 
the  matron's  wire  barricade  joins  the  wall  of  the  waiting  room.  And  there 
have  sat  girls  and  women  to  pour  their  tales  of  sorrow  and  tribulation 
into  the  matron's  ears  and  receive  counsel  and  advice  in  return.  On  the 
word  of  a  matron,  upright  men  would  feel  bitter  shame  for  their  sex 
could  they  only  know  those  sorrowful  confidences. 

Folks  have  died  in  the  Old  Depot,  men  and  women  and  children ; 
sick  folk  have  been  taken  from  trains,  sorely  stricken,  indeed  ;  funeral 
parties  have  had  to  wait  there  with  their  dead.  For  all  such  there  was  the 
"  private  room,"  a  little  curtained-off  corner  against  the  south  wall  of  the 
waiting  room.  The  shabby  black  curtains  and  the  dilapidated  wheel 
chairs  —  what  tears  have  washed  them !  There  have  been  days  when 
the  three  beds  of  the  dim  little  curtained-off  corner  held  their  sick, 
while  others  waited  outside  in  wheel  chairs  or  on  crude  pallets  spread 
upon  the  floor,  so  many  there  were. 

As  for  "  confidence  "  men,  never  a  day  went  by  in  the  old  days  (and 
few  since)  that  did  not  see  its  "  sucker  "  fleeced.  Only  in  those  days  the 
'"  suckers  "  were  not  known  as  such,  but  as  "'  grays."  In  the  Old  Depot 
the  "  confidence  "  men  plied  their  trade  of  getting  something  for  nothing. 
And  they  were  smart  "  confidence  "  men,  the  best  in  the  country.  Per- 
haps the  Old  Depot  took  a  certain  perverse  delight  in  their  superlative 
ability.  For  the  Old  Depot  was  at  the  crossroads  of  the  country,  and 
within  her  portals  was  "  easy  money." 

In  that  connection,  the  Old  Depot  was  inseparable  from  Union 
avenue.  Union  avenue  with  its  open-face  saloons,  its  grafting  barber 
shops,  its  ticket-scalping  agencies,  its  agencies  for  supplying  railroad 
laborers,  its  kindly,  fat-faced  McArdle  in  the  book  shop,  its  white  lights 
at  night,  its  hawkers,  its  ballyhoo  men,  its  tireless  crowds  of  countrymen 
gaping  at  the  sights  —  Union  avenue,  for  the  "confidence"  man,  was 
the  overflow  meeting  from  the  Old  Depot.  And  so  the  "  confidence  " 
man  helped  give  Union  avenue  that  unsavory  name  which  shall  endure 
long  after  the  street  is  dead  and  its  swan  song  sung. 


I30  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

The  "  confidence  "  man  of  those  days  dressed  the  part.  So,  too,  did 
the  gambler,  who,  however,  was  a  superior  being  that  scorned  the 
sharper.  The  gambler  of  the  West  came  often  to  the  Old  Depot,  return- 
ing to  the  big  town  of  the  frontier  to  enjoy  clean  sheets  and  bathtubs  and 
well-cooked  food  after  a  prosperous  sojourn  in  the  cattle  and  mining 
towns.  His  dress  was  elaborate,  his  heels  high  and  his  linen  fine.  Some- 
times, in  the  early  days  of  the  Old  Depot,  he  slept  in  the  building.  For, 
at  one  time,  the  Blossom  House  had  rooms  upstairs,  where,  later,  a 
women's  waiting  room  was  established.  And  if,  perchance,  while 
sojourning  here,  the  gambler  fell  upon  evil  times  and  low  cards  in  the 
North  End  or  the  big  gambling  houses  in  the  West  Bottoms  and 
Kansas  City,  Kans.,  then  the  Old  Depot  saw  him  return  shortly,  out- 
bound to  other  fields.    He  was  a  bird  of  passage. 

The  cattle  towns  and  mining  towns,  too,  sent  their  quotas  of  revelers, 
desirous  of  testing  the  comforts  of  civilization.  The  cowboys  of  Dodge 
City  and  the  western  Kansas  ranges  and  even  of  more  distant  points 
came  to  Kansas  City.  Some  brought  cattle  to  the  yards,  others  only 
money  to  the  till.  But  the  Old  Depot  welcomed  them  all  as  they 
came  —  lean,  tanned,  roweled,  booted,  spurred,  click-clacking  along  in 
their  high-heeled  boots,  picturesque  in  their  back-tilted  sombreros  and 
flaming  bandanna  neckerchiefs. 

So,  too,  did  she  welcome  the  miners,  going  and  coming.  For,  when  the 
rush  to  Leadville  was  on,  Kansas  City  played  as  big  a  part  as  Denver. 
Through  the  Old  Depot  went  scores  on  scores,  hastening  to  the  mines, 
upbuoyed  by  visions  of  great  wealth.  And  back  she  received  those  who 
struck  it  rich  and  those  who  failed,  some  to  revel  and  all  to  work  again 
with  their  hands,  eventually.  For  it  was  "  easy  come,  easy  go"  in  many 
cases,  and  the  fortunate  soon  were  on  a  par  with  the  unfortunate. 

And  she  saw  the  passing  of  the  big  cattlemen,  did  the  Old  Depot, 
as  they  dribbled  away  and  away  until  they  came  no  more  or  only 
infrequently,  indeed. 

Soldiers  too,  she  has  seen,  and  sailors.  But  those  her  successor,  too, 
will  see.  For,  standing  at  the  crossroads  of  the  continent,  Kansas  City 
must  be  reckoned  in  almost  every  troop  movement. 

Oh,  everybody  she  has  seen,  everybody !  And  Mormons  !  Many  a 
flock  of  converts,  girls  from  Sweden  and  England  and  other  points  of 
Europe,  being  shepherded  to  Utah.  But  they,  too,  will  go  on  in  all  like- 
lihood.   They,  too,  are  not  of  those  who  never  will  come  again,  like 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS         13 1 

the  cowboy  and  the  cattleman,  the  "  con  "  man  and  the  gambler,  the 
Mennonite  and  the  pioneer. 

Her  part  is  played.  It  is  "curtains"  now  for  the  Old  Depot. — 
Gerald  B.  Breitigam,  in  Ka?isas  City  Star 

Editor's  Note.  This  is  a  graphic  picture  of  the  old  Union  Station  of 
Kansas  City,  Missouri,  now  deserted  because  of  the  erection  of  a  beautiful 
new  structure  in  another  part  of  the  city.  The  mood  of  the  writer  has  been 
caught  in  the  title  given  the  story,  for  it  is  a  reminiscent  recital  of  old 
romance,  wrought  into  the  crumbling  bricks  and  smoke-grimed  walls  of  a 
familiar  landmark.  The  reporter  has  responded  to  the  thrill  of  a  hurrying 
crowd,  swayed  by  a  common  motive  to  catch  a  train.  A  procession  of 
picturesque  figures  passes  by,  all  of  them  seen  through  a  haze  of  imagina- 
tion. Here  is  grateful  remembrance,  and  a  mellow  appreciation  of  all  the 
old  station  saw  and  felt  in  the  days  when  it  was  in  its  prime. 


IN  THE  LAND  OF  THE  AMERICAN   HEAD-HUNTERS 

Edward  S.  Curtis,  who  spent  twenty-five  years  gathering  material  to 
perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  Indian,  who  is  the  only  white  man  that 
ever  accompanied  the  Hopi  priests  on  their  errand  of  snake  gathering, 
and  who  knows  Indians  as  no  other  white  man  does,  has  written  and 
filmed  an  epic  moving-picture  drama  of  Indian  life,  for  which  none  but 
primitive  redskins  posed.  He  called  it  "  In  the  Land  of  the  American 
Head-Hunters." 

Considering  the  people  with  whom  he  had  to  deal,  the  fact  that  he 
made  a  thrilling  picture  is  lost  sight  of  in  the  wonder  that  he  made  a  pic- 
ture at  all.  The  Indians  who  posed  for  the  picture  are  the  descendants 
of  the  race  of  head-hunters  who  inhabit  the  region  of  Vancouver  Island, 
British  Columbia,  facing  on  the  Pacific  Ocean  and  South  Alaska. 

There  the  picture  was  made,  and  a  more  fitting  place  could  not  be 
found.  The  scenery,  like  the  people,  is  wild  and  rugged.  Giant  trees 
grow  almost  to  the  water's  edge ;  there  they  give  place  to  precipitous, 
rocky  cliffs  or  white,  shelving  beaches,  against  which  the  heavy  waves, 
rolling  in  from  the  broad  Pacific,  break  incessantly.  There  are  no  roads 
and  no  paths ;  the  Indians  do  all  their  traveling  in  high-prowed,  dug-out 
canoes,  either  along  the  seacoast  or  far  up  the  rivers  which  traverse 
all  this  region.  The  sea  is  sown  thick  with  small  islands  —  outposts  of 
the  continent  exposed  to  the  weather  when  the  sea  is  low,  but  wholly 


132  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

submerged  when  the  tide  is  up  and  a  strong  swell  running.  The  people 
who  dwell  in  this  country  are  illiterate  and  simple  like  children,  wor- 
shiping the  past,  adhering  to  all  their  old  gods  and  totems  and  doing 
nothing  without  a  precedent. 

These  natives  he  determined  to  train  to  pose  for  a  picture  which  would 
portray  their  life  at  the  time  of  the  first  advent  of  the  white  man.  He 
practically  decided  to  aflfix  to  the  exhibits  of  a  museum  the  cunning 
machinery  of  locomotion  —  to  resurrect  the  mummies  of  a  bygone  age. 

For  two  years  he  collected  costumes  for  the  picture.  The  costumes 
for  the  ceremonial  dances  were  the  hardest  to  procure.  Some  had  fallen 
into  disuse,  others  were  in  such  a  state  that  they  would  never  do.  There 
were  special  dresses  necessary  for  the  Thunderbird,  the  spirit  of  the  ele- 
ments ;  for  the  Mountain  Goat,  the  Wasp,  the  Bear,  the  Raven,  the 
Deer,  the  Wolf  —  all  typifying  the  beasts  of  nature  and  all  requisite  to 
the  ceremonials. 

After  he  had  all  the  material  collected  he  started  to  film  the  picture. 
This  took  him  two  months  in  the  summer  of  19 13  and  three  months  in 
the  summer  of  19 14.  After  twice  escaping  drowning  by  an  eyelash,  and 
after  twice  being  reported  to  his  family  as  dead,  he  succeeded  in  making 
a  film  that  trained  actors  in  the  same  roles  could  not  have  equaled,  for 
every  actor  and  every  actress  in  the  piece  was  an  Indian ! 

Though  the  Indians  refused  to  do  anything  which  had  not  been  done 
before  by  someone  they  knew,  they  grasped  what  was  wanted  quickly 
and  performed  as  though  they  were  doing  it  in  real  life.  And  by  refusing 
to  do  a  thing  in  any  way  but  the  one  in  which  they  knew  it  had  been  done 
before,  they  helped  to  make  a  picture  entirely  free  from  pose  or  unnatural- 
ness.  The  picture  shows  all  the  winter  feasts  and  ceremonials  of  these  prim- 
itive people  when  the  ice  prevents  them  from  going  on  the  water  in  their 
canoes,  and  the  snow  from  penetrating  inland.  The  wooden  houses  are 
those  in  which  these  Indians  have  lived  and  their  ancestors  have  lived  from 
time  immemorial ;  and  nothing  has  been  interpolated  by  the  white  man. 

Motana,  a  handsome,  stalwart  young  Indian,  son  of  Kenada,  chief  of 
Watsulis  village,  comes  of  age  and  departs  for  an  island  to  purify  his  body 
and  to  prepare  himself  to  kill  the  sea  lion  and  the  whale,  so  the  scenario 
goes.  On  the  island  he  sees  a  lovely  maid,  in  a  vision,  and  the  next  day 
meets  her  in  the  flesh  and  gives  her  a  love  token. 

That  night  he  sleeps  in  the  "  House  of  Skulls  "  to  prove  his  courage. 
This  is  a  most  grewsome  place,  as  it  exists  today.   The  floor  is  paved  with 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  133 

skulls,  skulls  are  stuck  all  around  on  posts,  skulls  hang  in  clusters  from  poles 
like  onions  in  a  shop,  and  make  a  dismal  clatter  when  the  wind  shakes 
them.  These  are  treasured  mementos  of  successful  wars  waged  by  ances- 
tors of  the  Vancouver  Indians,  who  were  well  named  "  Head-Hunters." 

After  his  purification,  Motana  sets  forth  in  his  canoe  to  a  small  island 
in  the  sea,  to  kill  his  first  sea  lion.  It  was  on  this  island  that  Curtis  had 
a  narrow  escape.  In  the  picture,  when  approaching  the  island,  the  sea 
lions  are  so  thick  upon  it  that  they  look  like  bushes  against  the  bright- 
ness of  the  sky.  It  was  necessary  for  Curtis  to  be  on  the  island  at  dawn 
in  order  to  make  the  pictures  he  wanted.  So  after  he  had  made  films 
of  the  approach  to  it,  the  launch  left,  and  Curtis  with  two  companions 
remained  on  the  island  for  the  night. 

Suddenly,  one  of  his  companions  asked  him  if  he  had  noticed  the  om- 
inous fact  that  there  was  not  a  stick  of  driftwood  on  the  island.  Curtis 
told  him  yes,  but  that  there  was  one  piece,  on  the  topmost  point  of  the 
highest  part  of  the  island.  Then  he  consulted  his  tide  table  and  found 
that  the  tide  lacked  but  one  night  of  being  at  its  flood.  They  looked  at 
one  another  and  said  nothing.    The  land  was  19  miles  away. 

The  sun  went  down  behind  the  western  rim  of  the  sea  and  the  tide 
began  to  rise.  The  men  retreated  to  the  highest  point  on  the  island. 
One  by  one  the  surrounding  islands  sank  into  the  sea.  The  tide  rose 
until  it  washed  their  shoe  tops.  There  were  several  minutes  of  straining 
suspense.    Then  the  water  began  to  recede. 

Motana  then  sets  out  in  search  of  the  whale  and  kills  one.  The 
whale  pictures  are  really  masterpieces ;  the  camera  gets  so  close  to  one 
monster  that  the  nostrils  of  the  animal  can  be  seen  as  it  rises  to 
"  blov/."  This  was  done  by  pursuing  it  with  a  gasoline  launch  and 
getting  dangerously  close. 

After  Motana  marries,  and  the  Sorcerer,  who  desired  his  bride,  is 
killed,  there  is  a  terrific  battle  with  Yaklus,  war  chief,  and  brother  of  the 
Sorcerer.  The  battle  was  realistically  acted,  and  when  Yaklus  returns  to 
his  village  with  the  heads  of  Motana's  people  the  warriors  wave  the 
grisly  trophies  in  savage  exultation ;  and  the  women  perform  a  dance  of 
joy  on  the  shore.  There  were  few  rehearsals,  but  the  scenes  so  appealed 
to  the  Indians  that  they  looked  on  the  whole  thing  as  an  actual  happen- 
ing. Even  when  his  own  people  found  Motana  "  wounded,"  they  thought 
he  was  really  injured  and  moaned  and  cried  with  grief  until  he  sprang 
up  unhurt.    That  realism  was  the  whole  secret  of  the  picture's  success. 


134  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Motana  then  enters  a  gorge  with  his  canoe  and  by  skillful  guidance 
pilots  it  safely  through  the  dancing  rapids.  The  second  canoe  enters,  is 
caught  by  the  tide,  whirled  round  like  a  whirligig,  and  then  suddenly  up- 
ended and  upset.  No  one  was  hurt,  and  the  '"  body  "  of  Yaklus  floated 
in  swinging  circles  toward  the  rocks  near  the  shore.  The  scene  could 
not  have  been  better  had  it  been  rehearsed  a  dozen  times. 

And  so  the  picture  ends.  All  the  dignity  of  the  Indian  is  there,  and 
all  his  savagery.  The  w^hole  film  is  accompanied  by  Indian  music  caught 
by  the  phonograph  on  the  field,  and  later  symphonized. — James  F. 
Taylor  in  Sf.  Louis  Post-Dispatch 

Editor's  Note.  The  framework  of  this  story  of  the  making  of  a  moving- 
picture  epic,  with  Vancouver  savages  as  its  chief  actors,  is  revealed  within  the 
boundaries  of  the  opening  sentences.  Here  it  is  told  that  Edward  S.  Curtis, 
an  anthropologist,  has  succeeded  in  staging  an  Indian  drama  of  wild  life,  en- 
dtled  "  In  the  Land  of  the  American  Head-Hunters."  The  descriptive  passages 
that  follow  visualize  the  episodes,  dangers,  and  fantastic  posturings  incident  to 
the  producdon  of  the  film.  The  interest  in  the  tale  is  found  not  alone  in  the 
fact  that  the  picture  of  a  strange  people  had  been  secured  after  much  persever- 
ance —  although  that  is  a  notable  achievement  —  but  also  in  the  recital  of 
methods  employed  in  getting  these  Indians  to  pose,  and  of  the  handicaps 
and  hazardous  experiences  encountered  by  Mr.  Curtis.  The  primitive  actors 
in  their  bizarre  costumes,  the  vigil  in  the  House  of  Skulls,  the  whale  hunt,  the 
battle  and  shipwreck  in  the  rapids  — •  all  thrown  upon  a  background  of  wild 
grandeur  — -  add  to  the  realism  of  the  narrative.  The  man  who  risked  his 
life  to  take  the  pictures  is  not  neglected. 

The  spell  of  the  story  is  enhanced  by  the  introduction  of  photographs  that 
illustrate  some  of  the  interesting  features.  Mr.  Curtis  is  pictured  beside  the 
whale  killed  by  Motana  in  a  real  chase  before  the  "  movie  "  camera,  while 
liberal  space  is  given  to  the  representation  of  the  victorious  warriors  returning 
in  their  canoes  laden  with  the  spoils  of  battle.  The  mask  used  in  the  head- 
hunters'  dance  and  the  costume  of  the  wasp,  a  mythical  character  of  the 
Vancouver  legends,  are  also  reproduced.  Incidentally,  it  should  be  said  that 
the  printing  of  pictures  that  really  illustrate  always  gives  the  feature  story  an 
added  appeal.  Mr.  Taylor  secured  the  information  directly  from  the  explorer, 
but  had  the  advantage  of  having:  seen  the  film  before  the  interview. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  135 

POPE'S  VILLA  AT  TWICKENHAM   FOR  SALE 

Admirers  of  Alexander  Pope,  who,  though  they  may  not  be  so  num- 
erous today  as  they  were  in  our  grandparents'  time,  are  still  to  be  found 
in  every  part  of  the  world,  will  be  interested  in  the  announcement  that 
the  historical  residence  at  Twickenham  in  which  the  great  English  poet 
lived  from  17  14  until  his  death,  in  1744,  with  three  and  a  half  acres  of 
grounds  and  the  unique  grotto  in  which  he  composed  most  of  his  works, 
including  his  "  Essay  on  Man  "  and  his  "  Imitations  of  Horace,"  is  on 
the  market  for  immediate  sale. 

Many  of  the  world's  crowned  heads  have  visited  this  Twickenham 
shrine  of  the  muses  —  in  the  poet's  time  the  then  Prince  of  Wales,  the 
Duke  of  Buckingham  and  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  were  constant  visitors 
—  but  nowadays,  according  to  the  caretaker,  most  of  those  who  spend 
the  summer  days  wandering  through  the  grounds,  exploring  the  grotto  and 
examining  the  old  house  in  which  Pope  lived  and  dreamed,  are  Americans. 

There  is  a  passage  to  the  grotto  from  the  river  under  the  high  road, 
and  this  serves  also  as  a  piivate  entrance  to  the  beautiful  grounds.  The 
grotto  itself,  which  was  once  lined  with  spars,  shells  and  gems,  is  said  to 
have  cost  the  poet  more  than  $25,000  and  is  still  in  its  original  condition, 
except  that  most  of  the  gems  and  spars  have  been  carried  away  in  the 
pockets  of  vandal  tourists. 

Pope,  notwithstanding  his  friendship  with  the  great  lords  of  his  day, 
was  of  an  eccentric  and  somewhat  democratic  turn  of  mind.  In  his  will 
he  requested  that  his  body  should  be  carried  to  the  grave  by  six  of  the 
poorest  men  in  the  parish  of  Twickenham,  each  of  whom  received  a  suit 
of  coarse  gray  cloth.  At  the  base  of  the  poet's  monument  is  the  following 
quaint  inscription  : 

^  '-  POETE  LOQUITOR 

FOR  ONE  WHO  WOULD  NOT  BE  BURIED  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 
HEROES  AND  KINGS  YOUR  DISTANCE  KEEP, 

IN  PEACE  LET  ONE  POOR  POET  SLEEP, 

WHO  NEVER  FLATTERED  FOLKS  LIKE  YOU; 

LET  HORACE  BLUSH  AND  VIRGIL,  TOO. 

Since  the  poet's  death  Pope's  villa  has  passed  successively  into  the 
hands  of  Sir  William  Savile,  the  Right  Hon.  Wellborn  Ellis  and  Lady 
Howe.  More  recently  it  was  the  home  of  Mr.  Henry  Labouchere,  M.P., 
who  died  only  a  few  months  ago.  The  villa  has  been  reconstructed  and 
modernized  without  altering  its  character.     The  present  structure  is 


136  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

described  by  a  well-known  critic  as  a  combination  of  Elizabethan  and  Stuart 
architecture,  with  Dutch,  Italian  and  Chinese  features  thrown  in.  It  has 
a  picturesque  outlook  on  the  River  Thames.  The  estate  agents  who 
have  the  sale  in  hand  intimate  that  it  can  be  had  for  the  price  of  a  "  song  " 
—  that  is,  perhaps,  if  Caruso,  Melba,  Tetrazzini  and  artists  of  that  type 
are  the  singers. —  London  Correspondence  in  New  York  Herald 

Editor's  Note.  Interest  in  this  story  centers  in  the  fact  that  Pope's  villa, 
of  celebrated  renown,  is  to  be  sold.  The  story  naturally  brings  in  a  good  deal 
of  literary  history.  It  is  probably  most  interesting  to  admirers  of  Pope  who 
have  worshiped  at  the  Twickenham  shrine,  but  the  fascination  of  the  remote 
and  the  far-famed  also  contributes  to  its  appeal.  The  details  are  built  around 
the  news  announcement  that  the  villa  is  seeking  another  owner. 


ANCIENT  MOUND  YIELDS  RICH  TREASURE 

What  are  considered  by  experts  to  be  the  richest  finds  harking  back 
to  the  age  of  the  prehistoric  mound  builders  so  far  unearthed  in  Ohio 
have  just  been  placed  on  exhibition  in  the  rooms  of  the  State  Historical 
and  Archaeological  Society  at  Ohio  State  University. 

Curator  William  C.  Mills,  who  superintended  explorations  in  Ross 
county  during  the  summer,  said  yesterday  that  in  point  of  articles  secured 
and  in  discoveries  made,  the  exploration  is  the  most  important  on  record 
in  Ohio,  the  most  notable  field  for  mound-building  research.  He  declared 
that  much  light  had  been  thrown  on  the  civilization  of  past  ages  and  that 
a  vast  store  in  the  history  of  this  ancient  people,  which  heretofore  had 
been  legendary,  had  been  substantiated  by  the  remains  which  have  been 
saved  from  oblivion  by  the  explorer's  pick  and  shovel. 

The  mound  from  which  these  valuable  treasures  were  taken  is  located 
in  Ross  county  and  is  familiarly  known  as  the  Seip  mound.  Some  minor 
explorations  have  been  undertaken  before,  but  it  was  not  until  this  sum- 
mer that  the  work  of  excavation  began  in  earnest.  Professor  Mills  was 
assisted  by  sixteen  students  of  the  University  and  by  interested  friends, 
and  most  abundant  success  attended  the  work. 

What  particularly  struck  the  attention  of  the  explorers  was  the  great 
quantity  of  copper  ornaments  and  utensils,  green  with  their  long  burial 
in  the  heart  of  the  earth,  which  were  recovered  from  the  interior  of  the 
charnel  houses  where  they  had  been  buried  with  the  ashes  of  dead 
warriors  and  their  families. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS         1 37 

Some  of  these  copper  pieces  were  wrought  into  beautiful  shapes, 
showing  the  high  skill  which  this  ancient  people  had  acquired  as  dex- 
terous craftsmen.  One  of  the  remarkable  ones  is  a  piece  of  copper  which 
bears  at  the  top  a  perfect  crescent.  How  these  ornaments  were  rounded 
and  shaped  into  their  present  proportions  without  utilization  of  better 
tools  than  the  ancients  were  known  to  have,  is  a  mystery.  It  is  supposed 
that  they  were  gradually  shaped  by  friction  with  shells,  or  hammered 
into  symmetrical  form  by  stones.  There  are  many  breastplates,  engraved 
with  beautiful  scroll-like  designs  that  reveal  the  artistic  temperament  of 
their  makers  despite  rude  instruments,  and  a  wide  selection  of  necklaces. 
All  of  these  copper  ornaments  evidently  were  fashioned  to  heighten 
personal  beauty.  Attached  to  a  necklace,  they  dangled  from  the  neck, 
no  doubt  catching  and  hurling  back  the  glint  of  the  sun. 

While  ornaments  beaten  from  copper  seem  to  be  the  favorite  gauds 
of  these  people,  they  did  not  confine  themselves  to  the  ore  of  the  hills. 
Some  of  the  handsomest  pendants  just  found  are  bears'  teeth,  their 
white  centers  inlaid  with  pearl.  Less  fierce,  perhaps,  but  no  less  dis- 
tinctive are  the  sharks'  teeth  and  alligator  incisors,  which  bear  evidence 
of  also  serving  as  personal  adornments.  There  are  many  pieces  wrought 
of  a  dark  metallic  composition,  possibly  iron,  which  are  fac-similes  of 
the  beaks  and  claws  of  eagles.  Beads  strung  in  almost  endless  lines 
were  found  in  heaped  profusion. 

Considerable  interest  attaches  to  the  finds  of  these  beads  and  alligator 
teeth,  as  sea  shells  from  which  these  beads  are  fashioned  are  not  native 
to  Ross  county,  nor  have  alligators  ever  been  known  to  gobble  up  little 
colored  boys  near  the  seat  of  Ohio's  former  capitol.  It  is  now  supposed 
that  some  of  these  ancient  mound  builders  migrated  from  the  south, 
bringing  with  them  teeth  of  alligators  that  infested  the  swamps,  to- 
gether with  the  shells  that  lay  upon  the  shores  of  the  sea.  These  they 
made  good  use  of  in  their  new  home  in  Ohio.  The  presence  of  sharks' 
teeth  would  also  imply  that  emigrations  from  the  south  had  taken  place 
—  when,  nobody  is  bold  enough  to  say. 

What  is  regarded  as  a  very  important  find  —  because  it  is  the  only 
one  which  yet  has  come  under  the  observation  of  Curator  Mills  —  was 
the  unearthing  of  prepared  skins  as  soft  and  glossy  as  the  bear's  skin 
hanging  on  the  wall  of  a  den  in  a  modern  Columbus  house.  The  copper 
which  has  permeated  these  skins  has  preserved  their  luster  and  has 
guarded  their  beauty  from  ruin. 


138  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Great  quantities  of  mica  ornaments  were  also  brought  to  light,  reveal- 
ing the  wide  resourcefulness  of  the  mound  builder's  mind.  Here  are  all 
shapes  and  designs,  some  very  ornate,  others  quite  simple,  yet  all  obviously 
intended  as  personal  decorations. 

While  all  of  these  remains  are  considered  most  significant,  perhaps  the 
greatest  discovery  of  all  was  the  unearthing  of  a  charnel  house  used  by 
families  as  a  last  resting  place  for  their  dead.  Excavations  made  clear 
that  the  house  was  circular  in  size  and  had  been  constructed  of  logs. 
Contrary  to  popular  belief,  however,  the  bodies  were  not  laid  out  in 
regular  rows,  but  were  cremated.  This  process  consisted  in  placing  logs 
around  the  body  of  the  the  dead  member  of  the  family  and  then  ignit- 
ing the  pyre.  When  the  bodies  had  been  reduced  to  ashes,  the  fragments 
were  carefully  collected  and  placed  in  a  corner  of  a  mound  of  earth, 
usually  rectangular  in  shape,  with  a  deep  gutter  on  all  four  sides. 

One  of  these  family  mounds  was  discovered  with  heaps  of  cremated 
bones  in  each  of  the  four  corners.  Logs  were  then  placed  around  these 
mounds  to  protect  them  from  invasion,  and  dirt  packed  at  the  top. 

In  these  houses  were  discovered  the  bulk  of  the  copper  ornaments 
which  had  been  interred  by  the  mourning  relatives,  perhaps  under  the 
impression  that  the  dead  would  need  them  in  the  "  happy  hunting 
grounds."  Outside  this  circle,  which  marked  the  charnel  house  inclosure, 
relatively  few  ornaments  were  discovered. 

The  task  of  excavating  the  mound  recjuired  four  weeks.  Sixteen  men 
were  engaged  in  the  work,  which  was  made  doubly  fascinating  because 
of  the  likelihood  of  turning  up  some  prehistoric  relic  with  every  spadeful 
of  dirt.  A  photograph  taken  by  Mr.  Mills  shows  the  workmen  resting 
from  their  labors  and  sizing  up  the  hole  in  the  ground. 

Curator  Mills  was  especially  gleeful  yesterday  in  showing  the  results 
of  his  summer's  work,  which  are  now  carefully  under  case  at  the  museum. 
It  is  his  intention  to  collect  the  data  of  the  explorations  and  to  set  forth 
the  results  and  the  finds  made  this  summer,  which  have  shown  up  the 
mound  builders  under  new  guises  and  which  have  served  to  add  the  most 
important  relics  to  the  museums  of  Ohio's  prehistoric  remains. — H.  F.  H., 
in  Ohio  State  Journal 

Editor's  Note.  The  life  and  manners  of  an  ancient  people  are  always 
fascinating,  especially  when  they  present  unusual  contrasts  with  a  newer  gen- 
eration. The  foregoing  story  of  mound  explorations  presents  a  group  of  facts 
sufficiently  out  of  the  ordinary  to  secure  place  in  a  newspaper.     A  detailed 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  139 

description  is  given  of  ornaments,  breastplates,  beads,  and  cremated  bones 
—  mute  witnesses  of  the  intimate  life  of  a  vanished  people.  There  is  human- 
interest  here  a-plenty.  The  story  may  also  be  considered  capital  news  in  that 
it  brings  a  rich  treasure  to  light  and  utilizes  discovery  and  the  thrill  of  the 
unexpected. 

HERE'S  THE  ORIGIN  OF  BOURBON 

Many  a  jest  will  be  made  over  the  fact  that  Bourbon  County,  Ken- 
tucky, has  gone  "  dry."  The  incident,  however,  adds  another  chapter  to 
American  history,  which  is  of  more  than  passing  interest.  Students  of 
history  will  remember  that  the  first  hard  test  to  which  the  power  of  the 
Federal  Government  was  subjected  came  as  a  result  of  the  first  attempt 
to  levy  an  excise  tax  upon  whisky. 

In  the  early  days  New  England  rum,  distilled  from  fermented 
molasses,  was  the  tipple  of  our  forefathers.  Near  the  points  of  pro- 
duction this  afforded  the  American  citizens  a  cheap  headache  following 
a  brief  period  of  exhilaration.  But  the  country  had  no  roads  worthy  of 
the  name,  and  New  England  rum  rose  in  price  as  it  was  transported  to 
distant  settlements.  In  such  a  situation  the  consumers  looked  for  relief 
by  the  production  of  a  substitute  nearer  home.  As  has  always  been 
the  case,  production  rose  to  the  demand. 

In  four  counties  of  western  Pennsylvania,  centering  about  Pittsburgh, 
there  was  a  heavy  colonization  of  Scotch-Irish  men  who  loved  both  their 
toddy  and  their  liberty.  They  brought  with  them  the  art  of  distillation 
from  across  the  sea,  and  also  the  stills.  They  grew  cereals  in  plentiful 
quantity  in  their  rugged  counties,  but  it  was  a  long,  rough  road  to  the 
eastern  marts  of  the  state,  and  other  counties  were  supplying  the 
eastern  towns  with  their  food  products.  This  left  the  western  counties 
nothing  for  export  but  whisky,  and  so  intense  was  the  production  that 
every  large  farmer  had  his  little  still.  The  villages  at  the  same  time  built 
up  an  important  industry  in  cooperage.  These  counties  were  able  to 
supply  themselves  with  most  of  their  necessities,  but  whisky  was  their 
chief  export  product  which  brought  money  into  their  district  and  was 
regarded  as  the  foundation  of  their  prosperity. 

It  was  a  poor  family  indeed  which  did  not  have  its  jug  of  "  old  Monon- 
gahela  "  to  enliven  weddings,  militia  meetings,  elections,  caucuses,  and 
other  public  functions.  It  was  the  sovereign  antidote  for  snake  bites, 
although  most  of  the  consumption  was  anticipatory.  It  also  kept  the 
fires  of  patriotism  burning  hotly  in  pioneer  breasts. 


I40  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Presently  the  P'ederal  Government  discovered  its  need  of  credit.  To 
sustain  its  credit  it  must  have  not  only  the  willingness  to  pay,  but  the 
visible  ability  through  a  dependable  source  of  revenue  which  would  levy 
taxes  where  they  would  least  oppress  the  poor  and  least  affect  business. 
Alexander  Hamilton  framed  up  a  scheme  of  revenue  production  which 
included  the  taxation  of  whisky  stills  and  their  product.  Portions  of  the 
states  of  Pennsylvania,  Maryland,  Virginia,  the  Carolinas,  and  Georgia 
protested  indignantly  that  this  was  a  blow  at  their  prosperity.  The  four 
counties  of  Pennsylvania  where  the  industry  was  the  largest  rose  in 
rebellion  and  challenged  the  right  of  the  Federal  Government,  knowing 
that  they  had  Governor  Mifflin  of  Pennsylvania  buffaloed. 

The  upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  President  Washington  had  to 
exercise  his  authority  to  the  last  degree  by  sending  15,000  troops  to  put 
down  the  rebellion,  for,  while  some  of  the  distillers  were  willing  to  pay 
and  did  pay  the  tax,  the  unwilling  ones  classed  them  as  enemies, 
destroyed  their  stills,  and  persecuted  them  severely.  The  troops  put 
down  the  rebellion,  but  while  some  of  the  distillers  accepted  the  inevitable 
gracefully  under  compulsion,  the  more  rebellious  ones  trekked  southward 
into  the  wilds  of  OF  Kentucky,  took  up  their  homes  in  the  county  of 
Bourbon,  and  resumed  the  production  of  whisky  in  the  old  stills.  Corn 
was  substituted  for  the  rye  and  other  small  grains  they  had  been  using. 
Thus  American  whisky  became  divided  into  two  classifications,  bourbon 
and  rye,  but  there  is  little  difference  in  the  physiological  effects.  Today 
Bourbon  County,  the  asylum  of  the  whisky  exiles,  has  gone  "  dry,"  but 
the  "  old  Monongahela  "  district  is  as  it  was  in  the  beginning,  decidedly 
damp,  politically.— Z>^/m/  Tribune 

Editor's  Note.  This  feature  story  on  the  "  Origin  of  Bourbon  "  is  built 
on  the  announcement  that  Bourbon  County,  Kentucky,  made  the  home  of 
illicit  whisky  following  the  Whisky  Rebellion,  had  joined  the  prohibition  column. 
Such  a  news  story  is  sufficient  excuse  for  the  printing  of  historical  details,  used 
in  answering  the  question  on  how  Bourbon  whisky  got  its  name.  Such  facts 
may  be  found  in  books  of  reference,  but  their  application  here  makes  them 
doubly  interesting. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  14I 

UNCLE  SAM  NOW  INSTRUCTOR  IN  SCIENCE  OF 
RAISING  CHILDREN 

An  eighty-page  book  on  "  How  to  raise  a  Baby  "  is  soon  to  be  pub- 
lished by  Uncle  Sam.  It  has  been  prepared  in  the  Children's  Bureau  in 
Washington  and  contains  many  pieces  of  information  quite  new  to 
most  American  mothers. 

For  instance,  take  the  question  of  punitive  discipline.  It  is  dangerous 
to  punish  a  baby  harshly.  So  young  a  child  knows  nothing  of  right  or 
wrong.  Frequent  or  severe  punishment  may  so  modify  his  character  as 
to  make  him  sullen  and  morose  in  later  life. 

Here  are  some  things  which  the  mother  may  reasonably  expect  in 
regard  to  her  baby  : 

It  laughs  aloud  from  the  third  to  the  fifth  month. 

It  reaches  for  toys  and  holds  them  from  the  fifth  to  the  seventh  month. 

It  learns  to  hold  up  its  head  unsupported  during  the  fourth  month. 

At  seven  or  eight  months  it  is  able  to  sit  erect. 

During  the  ninth  and  tenth  months  it  makes  its  first  attempts  to  bear 
its  weight  on  its  feet.  At  eleven  or  twelve  months  it  can  usually  stand 
with  assistance. 

It  begins  to  walk  alone  in  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  months. 

At  twelve  months  it  may  be  expected  to  speak  a  few  words,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  second  year  the  baby  should  give  utterance  to  short 
sentences. 

It  is  not  well  to  play  with  the  baby  much.  It  is  charming  to  hear  him 
laugh  and  crow  in  apparent  delight,  but  often  the  means  used  to  evoke 
the  laughter,  such  as  tickling,  punching,  and  tossing,  make  him  irritable 
and  restless. 

The  mother  should  be  cautious  about  rocking  the  baby,  jumping  him 
up  and  down  on  her  knee,  shaking  his  bed  or  carriage  and  in  general 
keeping  him  in  constant  motion.  All  these  things  disturb  the  child's 
nerves,  while  incidentally  rendering  him  more  and  more  dependent  upon 
such  attentions. 

Beware  of  the  careless  nursemaid.  She  has  almost  unlimited  oppor- 
tunities for  harming  the  baby.  One  has  only  to  visit  the  parks  of  any 
city  on  a  pleasant  day  to  note  the  neglect  and  misdoings  of  nurse  girls. 
Infants  are  allowed  to  lie  with  the  sun  shining  in  their  eyes,  are  per- 
mitted to  become  chilled  or  hungry.    They  are  scolded  or  jerked  about 


142  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

by  one  arm  or  fed  with  candy  and  cakes  to  keep  them  contented.  When 
at  home  they  are  left  strapped  in  a  high  chair  for  long  periods,  or  without 
the  mother's  knowledge  are  dosed  with  opium  or  morphine  in  the  form 
of  "  soothing  sirups  "  to  quiet  them. 

The  nurse  girl  may  threaten  the  baby  with  the  policeman  or  with  imagi- 
nary hobgoblins.  This  is  very  bad.  Fear  instilled  thus  early  in  the  ten- 
der mind  of  a  child  is  often  almost  impossible  to  eradicate  and  may 
engender  a  permanent  timidity.  A  too  rigid  obedience  to  the  nurse  on 
the  baby's  part  should  always  be  viewed  with  suspicion  as  suggesting 
methods  of  secret  discipline.  From  all  of  which  considerations  it  follows 
that  no  mother  should  neglect  to  investigate  the  character  of  the  nurse- 
maid she  proposes  to  engage. 

Fat  babies  are  generally  admired,  but  this  is  a  mistake.  The  ideal  in 
baby  feeding  is  not  to  produce  obesity,  and  a  very  rapid  increase  in  weight 
is  far  from  being  desirable.  It  is  comparatively  easy  to  grow  fat,  but  it 
is  a  harder  and  slower  process  to  grow  muscle,  bone,  blood,  and  nerve 
tissue.  Most  mothers  think  that  if  they  have  a  very  plump,  red-cheeked 
baby  it  is  evidence  that  they  are  giving  the  best  sort  of  care,  but  this  is 
not  always  true. 

Some  of  the  widely  advertised  infant  foods  produce  just  this  kind  of 
babies.  But  such  foods  are  liable  to  be  deficient  in  some  of  the  elements 
needed  for  the  symmetrical  development  of  all  parts  of  the  body,  and, 
later,  a  weakness  of  some  kind  or  a  defect  of  health  may  afford  the 
first  indication  that  the  baby  was  not  properly  fed. 

A  perfect  baby  does  not  have  the  outlines  of  his  muscles  obliterated 
by  wads  and  cushions  of  fat.  He  is  alert,  springy.  His  flesh  is  hard  to 
pressure,  not  soft  and  flabby.  His  color  is  pinkish,  save  where  the  cheeks 
have  been  reddened  by  cold  or  heat. 

There  is  a  tendency  to  attribute  to  teething  many  ailments  which  are 
due  to  other  causes.  The  teeth  begin  to  appear  at  about  the  same  time 
that  the  baby  is  being  weaned  and  new  foods  are  being  tried.  Digestive 
disturbances  are  likely  to  occur  for  these  reasons.  If  the  baby  cuts  his 
teeth  in  summer  his  illness  may  be  due  to  excessive  heat,  or  to  improper 
feeding  or  overfeeding.  In  any  case  careful  feeding  is  of  utmost 
importance. 

The  baby  should  not  be  expected  to  gain  weight  while  teething.  He 
should  not  be  urged  to  eat  when  he  has  no  appetite,  merely  for  the  sake 
of  tr}nng  to  augment  his  weight.    If  this  is  attempted,  his  digestion  is 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  143 

likely  to  suffer.  After  the  teethiiig  trouble  has  passed  he  will  be  hungry 
again,  and  will  soon  regain  the  lost  ground. 

The  second  summer  has  gained  a  reputation  for  being  the  most  critical 
period  of  the  baby's  life,  but  the  truth  is  that  the  first  summer  is  a  much 
more  hazardous  time.  If  properly  fed  and  cared  for,  a  healthy  baby 
should  be  brought  through  the  second  summer  in  perfect  condition. 

The  mother  who,  for  the  sake  of  personal  convenience  or  other  selfish 
reason,  refuses  to  nurse  her  baby,  who,  in  other  words,  deliberately 
withholds  from  it  the  food  suitable  for  its  needs,  and  to  which  it  is  entitled, 
is  voluntarily  augmenting  the  chances  against  her  child's  survival  as  well 
as  the  chances  of  its  growing  up  with  imperfect  health.  Nature  has  in 
view  only  one  kind  of  food  for  a  human  infant.  Cow's  milk  is  different 
in  composition  from  mother's  milk,  and  no  modifying  process  will  make 
it  at  all  the  same  thing  to  the  baby. 

The  body  makes  a  greater  proportional  growth  during  the  first  year 
of  life  than  during  any  other  year,  and  the  brain  increases  more  in  this 
period  than  in  all  the  subsequent  years  of  life  put  together.  It  is  therefore 
of  utmost  importance  that  during  this  critical  time  the  baby  shall  be 
surrounded  by  all  possible  conditions  for  perfect  health.  The  most 
important  of  these  conditions  is  the  milk. 

If  the  food  offered  to  the  baby  is  one  to  which  the  digestive  apparatus 
must  learn  to  accommodate  itself,  or  one  that  is  lacking  in  some  of  the 
elements  necessary  for  growth  and  development,  the  natural  processes 
are  hindered,  and  if  illness  comes  they  may  be  so  seriously  interfered 
with  as  to  make  it  difficult  or  even  impossible  for  the  child  afterward  to 
regain  entirely  the  lost  ground.  As  a  result  there  may  be  an  impairment 
of  health  even  after  the  individual  has  become  adult. 

Undoubtedly  in  many  cases  grown  persons  w^ould  have  escaped  de- 
fects and  deficiencies  with  which  they  have  to  contend  if  they  had  passed 
the  period  of  infancy  in  perfect  health.  A  considerable  proportion  of 
intellectual  and  moral  inferiorities  is  attributable  to  imperfect  nutrition 
in  early  childhood. 

The  mother's  milk  is  practically  free  from  disease  germs ;  and  it  has 
the  advantage  of  being  fed  to  the  baby  at  a  uniform  temperature  from 
beginning  to  end  of  the  nursing.  It  contains  certain  elements  which  tend 
to  immunize  the  child  against  disease.  Bottle-fed  infants  are  attacked  by 
diseases  much  oftener  and  more  seriously  than  those  nourished  in  the 
natural  way.    Not  only  does  the  mother's  milk  protect  the  nursing  baby 


144  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

from  illness  and  increase  materially  his  chances  of  survival  but  it  practi- 
cally insures  that  his  development  shall  proceed  in  a  normal  and  orderly 
fashion  then  and  thereafter. 

There  are  few  mothers  who  cannot  nurse  their  babies.  Fear  on  the 
woman's  part  that  she  will  not  be  able  to  perform  this  function  has  more 
to  do  with  the  supposed  inability  to  nurse  than  any  other  one  factor. 

Bad  habits  in  a  baby  should  be  discouraged.  One  of  the  worst  is 
crying.  A  child  should  not  be  allowed  to  form  the  idea  that  the  best 
way  to  get  anything  he  happens  to  want  is  to  cry  for  it.  This  sort  of 
thing  makes  a  spoiled,  fussy  baby,  a  household  tyrant  whose  constant 
demands  make  a  slave  of  his  mother. 

The  habit  of  sucking  on  a  "  pacifier  "  or  other  equivalent  is  abomina- 
ble and  is  one  for  which  somebody  else  is  entirely  responsible.  It  spoils 
the  natural  arch  of  the  mouth,  causing  a  protrusion  of  the  upper  jaw.  It 
induces  a  continual  flow  of  saliva  and  keeps  the  baby  unpleasantly 
drooling.  Furthermore,  the  pacifier  is  never  clean,  and  may  carry  the 
germs  of  disease  into  the  child's  mouth. 

Thumb  or  finger  sucking  is  a  similar  habit  which  the  baby  may  acquire 
for  himself,  though  actually  in  some  instances  it  is  taught  to  him.  It  has 
the  same  bad  effects.  To  break  it  up  requires  resolution  and  patience  on 
the  mother's  part.  The  thumb  or  finger  must  be  persistently  removed 
from  the  mouth  and  the  child's  attention  diverted  to  something  else.  Or 
the  sleeve  may  be  pinned  or  sewed  down  over  the  offending  hand  for 
several  days  and  nights ;  or  the  hand  may  be  put  in  a  cotton  mitten. 

The  baby's  first  bed  may  be  made  from  an  ordinary  clothes  basket,  or 
from  a  light  box,  such  as  an  orange  crate.  Later,  a  metal  crib  with  a 
firm  spring  is  desirable.  Table  padding,  or  "  silence  cloth,"  folded  to  four 
thicknesses,  makes  a  very  good  mattress,  because  it  is  readily  washable. 

A  baby  will  breathe  more  easily  and  take  a  larger  supply  of  air  into 
his  lungs  if  not  provided  with  a  pillow.  Toward  the  end  of  the  second 
year  a  thin  hair  pillow  may  be  used.  Feather  or  down  pillows  are  unduly 
heating  to  the  child's  head. 

On  no  account  must  any  kind  of  medicine  to  induce  sleep  be  given 
to  a  baby.  "  Soothing  sirups  "  and  other  similar  preparations  are  apt 
to  contain  morphine  or  other  drugs  that  are  exceedingly  dangerous. 
They  kill  a  great  many  babies  every  year. 

A  baby  should  be  trained  from  the  beginning  to  have  the  longest 
period  of  unbroken  sleep  at  night.    Some  babies  get  a  wrong  start  in  this 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  145 

respect,  and  make  great  trouble  by  turning  night  into  day.  The  baby 
ought  to  have  a  quiet  place  in  which  to  sleep,  but  he  should  be  taught  to 
sleep  through  the  ordinary  household  noises.  It  should  not  be  necessary 
to  walk  on  tiptoe  and  talk  in  whispers  lest  the  baby  waken.  —  Rene 
Bache,  in  New  York  Sun 

Editor's  Note.  The  basis  for  this  story  is  an  eighty-page  booklet  issued 
by  the  Children's  Bureau  in  Washington.  It  is  a  good  example  of  how  a  skill- 
ful writer  may  simplify  a  long  and  somewhat  unreadable  report  for  the  benefit 
of  hasty  readers.  The  story  avoids  an  array  of  statistics  and  digests  a  govern- 
ment document  for  easy  reading.  The  article  is  particularly  timely  because  of 
the  impetus  given  the  campaign  for  "  better  babies."  The  facts  contained  in  the 
story  have  an  immediate  appeal  to  every  thoughtful  mother  and  to  every  intel- 
ligent student  of  child  betterment  and  race  welfare.  Attention  is  called  to  the 
compact  structure  and  to  the  quick  summing  up  of  relevant  facts.  The  reporter 
has  clearly  met  his  obligation  to  make  a  story  readable.  An  assortment  of 
photographs,  illustrating  phases  of  the  article,  gives  it  greater  vividness  and 
adds  to  its  commercial  value  in  the  eyes  of  the  Sunday  editor. 


RARE  AND  VALUABLE  BIBLES  IN  BISHOP  QUAYLE'S  LIBRARY 

Lovers  of  old  specimens  of  the  bookmaker's  art  and  admirers  of 
beautiful  bindings,  brilliant  engravings,  scroll  ornamentation,  and  rare 
typography  could  spend  many  an  interesting  hour  in  the  library  of  Bishop 
William  A.  Quayle,  1531  Hewitt  avenue,  St.  Paul,  in  whose  collection 
is  a  series  of  rare  editions  of  the  Bible,  dating  from  the  thirteenth 
century,  prior  to  the  era  of  the  printed  page. 

The  collection  includes  more  than  140  volumes  of  the  Scriptures. 
Bishop  Quayle  obtained  some  of  the  rare  volumes  in  America,  and 
others  were  obtained  abroad.  He  says  he  keeps  in  touch  with  the  book 
markets  of  London  and  New  York  and  is  thus  able  to  learn  when  any 
rare  Bibles  are  offered  for  sale. 

The  oldest  Bible  in  the  collection  is  a  manuscript  volume  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  about  1225.  Written  on  parchment  in  microscopic 
hand  with  very  fine  floriations  and  illuminations,  especially  rich  in  the 
Book  of  Psalms,  this  is  indeed  an  interesting  volume.  The  brush  work 
is  mainly  in  cardinal  and  blue.  The  colors  are  vivid  and  the  floriations 
exquisite.  As  a  piece  of  illumination  and  chirography.  Bishop  Quayle 
says  he  does  not  recall  having  seen  its  superior  in  the  British  Museum. 


146  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

This  work  was  executed  about  the  time  of  the  giving  of  the  Magna 
Charta.  The  volume  is  bound  in  French  repousse  silver,  which  is  some 
hundreds  of  years  old. 

Another  manuscript  Bible  of  the  thirteenth  century,  in  perfect  condi- 
dition,  of  small  folio,  written  on  parchment  and  in  rare  chirography,  also 
is  an  interesting  volume.  The  introduction  initial  is  an  elaborate  piece  of 
scribal  design.  As  usual  in  the  old  scribal  works,  the  Psalms  come  in  for 
special  glory  of  coloring  and  device. 

Another  valuable  addition  to  Ijishop  Quayle's  library  is  a  synagogue 
roll — The  Tora — transcribed  on  parchment  some  three  feet  wide.  The 
cylinders  are  perfect,  as  are  the  chirography  and  the  parchment. 

Bishop  Quayle  also  possesses  part  second  of  Eggensteyn's  Latin  Bible, 
1469.  There  is  a  copy  of  the  first  volume  only  in  the  British  Museum. 
Eggensteyn  was  one  of  the  earliest  printers  of  Strassburg.  The  copy  of 
the  second  book  has  245  leaves.  The  names  of  the  books  of  the  Bible, 
the  chapter,  and  title  on  each  page  are  all  inserted  in  red,  by  hand.  As  a 
specimen  of  early  printing,  this  rare  and  venerable  volume  is  of  the 
greatest  value. 

The  Rodt  et  Richel  Bible,  1470,  in  Gothic  letters,  double  column, 
with  headlines  and  chapter  numerals  written  by  a  contemporary,  in  red, 
and  the  first  part  painted  in  vermilion  and  blue,  and  having  in  addition 
a  number  of  wood-  or  metal-  cut  initials,  in  the  original  binding  of  thick 
wooden  board  covered  with  calf,  is  a  fine  example,  typical  in  every  way,  of 
the  earliest  epoch  in  the  histor)^  of  the  printed  Bible  in  Europe.  This  work 
was  first  printed  at  Basle,  having  been  started  about  1470  by  Berthold 
Rodt  (or  Ruppell),  the  prototypographer  of  that  city,  and  completed  after 
his  death  by  Bernard  Richel,  his  successor.  Bishop  Quayle  says  he  has 
been  able  to  trace  the  existence  of  no  more  than  five  copies  of  this  Bible. 

The  Bible  in  Partu,  1471,  is  an  example  of  curious  early  printing.  It 
is  a  Latin  commentary  on  the  Bible  from  the  commencement  of  Isaiah 
to  the  end  of  Maccabees.  The  text  in  bold  Gothic  type,  two  columns,  is 
surrounded  by  the  comments.    There  are  several  large  woodcuts. 

The  Coberger  Bible  is  another  rare  volume  in  Bishop  Quayle's  collec- 
tion. The  text  is  in  Gothic,  double  columns,  the  first  capital  being  illu- 
minated, and  with  large  scroll  ornamentation.  The  larger  capitals  are  in 
red  and  blue,  with  many  pen  decorations.  The  headings  are  in  red.  An- 
ton Coberger,  who  probably  commenced  to  print  in  1471,  was  one  of  the 
princes  of  typography,  and  Bishop  Quayle  considers  this  Coberger  Bible 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  147 

the  finest  he  has  ever  seen,  declaring  it  much  superior  in  beauty  and 
sumptuousness  in  execution  to  the  famous  Gutenberg  Bible. 

The  Froben  Bible,  1495,  is  a  superior  specimen  of  early  binding  in 
stamped  pigskin,  the  brass  and  pigskin  clasps  being  intact  and  perfect. 
In  the  spaces  left  at  the  head  of  paragraphs  for  the  capitals  to  be  placed 
in  by  hand  the  scribe  has  inserted  lower-case  letters,  indicating  that  some 
of  the  early  scribes  were  shy  of  knowledge  of  typography.  A  second  vol- 
ume of  the  Froben  Bible  is  amply  annotated  on  the  margins,  showing  an 
extensive  study  by  some  oldtime  lover  of  the  word  of  God.  The  para- 
graph capitahletter  space  in  this  book  is  filled  in  throughout  with  crudely 
constructed  capitals  made  over  the  original  small  paragraph  letter.  A 
Venetian  Bible,  1497,  completes  the  study  in  early  typography. 

The  period  of  the  issuance  of  the  printed  English  Bibles  reaches  from 
the  translation  of  Tyndale's  New  Testament  in  1526  to  King  James's 
version,  1 6 1 1 .  The  chronological  order  of  the  printed  Bibles,  a  specimen 
of  each  of  which  is  included  in  Bishop  Quayle's  library,  is  as  follows : 
Tyndale's  New  Testament,  1526;  Coverdale's  Bible,  1535;  Matthew's 
Bible  (Bugge  Bible),  1537  ;  Taverner's  Bible,  1539  ;  "  The  Great  Bible," 
or  Cranmer's  Bible,  1539;  the  Geneva,  or  Breeches,  Bible,  1560;  the 
Bishops',  or  Parker's,  Bible,  1568,  and  King  James's  Bible,  161 1. 

The  Tyndale  New  Testament  is  beautifully  bound  by  W.  Pratt  in 
chocolate  brown,  with  beautiful  toolings,  and  is  a  volume  of  great  inter- 
est and  rarity.  Bishop  Quayle's  copy  of  the  Coverdale  Bible  is  perfect. 
It  formerly  belonged  to  the  great  Huth  Libraiy  and  was  exhibited  in 
the  Caxton  celebration  display  in  London. 

The  Matthew's  Bible,  irreverently  named  the  "  Bugge  Bible,"  is  a  rare 
volume.  The  passage  which  gives  the  Bible  its  nickname  is  found  in 
Psalm  xci,  as  follows  : 

So  that  thou  shalt  not  nede  to  be  afrayed  for  any  bugges  by  night. 

The  Vinegar  Bible  is  another  unique  book  in  Bishop  Quayle's  collec- 
tion. It  is  so  named  because  the  headline  of  St.  Luke,  chapter  xx,  has 
the  word  "  vinegar  "  in  mistake  for  "  vineyard."  This  Bible  was  printed 
by  J.  Baskett  in  17 17.  It  has  engravings  and  ornamental  letters,  and 
the  print  is  vivid.    It  is  bound  in  ooze  calf. 

The  Breeches  Bible,  1591,  is  a  remarkable  edition  of  the  celebrated 
version  made  by  the  English  exiles  while  residing  in  Geneva.  The  Pil- 
grims prized  this  edition  highly  and  used  it  almost  altogether  during 


148  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

the  early  days  of  the  American  colonics.  The  Puritan  Arrival  Bible, 
printed  in  the  year  of  the  Puritan  sailing,  is  another  interesting  edition. 
—  Jack  Remington,  in  Sf.  Paul  Pioneer  Press 

Editor's  Note.  The  foregoing  story  hinges  upon  the  personality  of  Bishop 
William  A.  Quayle,  well  beloved  by  St.  Paul  people,  and  brings  the  information 
that  he  is  a  collector  of  rare  volumes.  Many  unfamiliar  facts  about  Bibles  are 
contained  in  the  article,  which  reveals  evidences  of  painstaking  investigation 
and  a  somewhat  erudite  appreciation  of  book  lore.  The  informative  quality  of 
the  story  outweighs  its  personal  appeal.  It  should  be  noted,  however,  that  the 
structure  of  the  story  shows  evidences  of  undue  haste  in  composition,  both  in 
the  fashioning  of  sentences  and  in  the  somewhat  limited  selection  of  words 
and  synonyms. 


THE  COSSACKS  ARE  THE  COWBOYS  OF  RUSSIA 

To  the  wars  once  more  the  Cossacks  go,  rough  riders  of  the  czar, 
who  for  centuries  have  been  in  readiness  to  do  his  commands. 

Their  home  has  for  ages  been  upon  the  grass-grown  steppes.  As  free 
as  the  air  above,  as  reckless  of  danger  as  the  creatures  of  the  wild,  they 
have  lived  beneath  the  stars. 

The  popular  conception  of  the  Cossack  is  a  whiskered  atrocity  who 
rides  with  the  speed  of  the  wind,  comes  to  do  acts  of  pillage  and  of 
rapine  and  then  goes  back  again  into  the  bosom  of  the  tall  grass  from 
which  he  came.  By  many  he  is  supposed  to  belong  to  a  legendary  tribe 
whose  history  stretches  back  into  the  blackness  of  the  Dark  Ages  from 
which  he  has  not  yet  emerged. 

No  ;  the  Cossack  is  in  many  respects  like  the  simple  Russian  peasant ; 
in  others  he  is  like  the  cowboy  of  the  Western  plains,  whose  home  is  as 
much  in  the  saddle  as  in  his  own  village.  Far  from  being  oppressors, 
the  Cossacks  were  once  known  entirely  as  the  defenders  of  the  poor  and 
the  wronged.  They  belonged  to  an  order  of  rustic  chivalry,  the  Kaza- 
chestvo,  the  Knights  of  Freedom. 

The  name  "  Kazak  "  is  of  Tartar  origin  and  means  "freeman."  It 
was  applied  to  men  who,  driven  from  the  more  settled  countries,  under 
the  blue  sky  rode  without  the  trammel  of  tradition,  without  the  in- 
terference of  kings,  potentates  and  powers.  There  was  a  time  when 
nobles  laid  heavy  hand  upon  the  subject,  and  human  life  was  held  in 
small  account. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  149 

The  thirteenth  and  the  fourteenth  centuries  saw  the  Cossacks  devel- 
oped into  communities  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  river  Dnieper 
and  riding  hither  and  thither  to  keep  watch  and  ward  over  the  domain 
of  the  emperor. 

The  cowboy  guards  of  the  great  Southwest  in  this  country,  who  are 
now  disappearing  from  our  American  life,  are  Cossacks  in  spirit.  When 
they  become  cavalrymen,  Texas  Rangers  or  Rough  Riders  they  are 
American  Cossacks. 

There  were  some  criminals  among  the  Cossacks,  but  once  they  had 
enrolled  in  the  Cossack  legions  they  left  behind  them  all  their  past.  Some 
were  exiles  for  political  reasons,  others  had  been  hunted  for  taking  into 
their  own  hands  the  avenging  of  wrongs.  And  what  avails  a  name,  after 
all  ?  What  is  more  convenient  in  changing  from  a  constrained  state  of 
society  to  one  which  is  unfettered  than  to  change  the  title  by  which  one 
is  known  among  his  fellow  men  ?  When  the  officers  of  the  state  came 
inquiring  into  the  Cossack  encampments  for  Demetri  this  and  Ivan  that 
nothing  was  known  of  them  at  all,  for  the  Cossacks  permitted  men  to 
divest  themselves  of  former  titles  and  to  begin  the  free  life  with  a  new 
nomenclature.  To  them  the  newcomers  were  "  Big  Nose,"  ''  Yellow 
Buttons  "  or  some  other  nicknamed  comrade. 

While  other  persons  paid  taxes,  the  Cossack  was  subject  to  no  such 
inconvenient  levy.  His  share  was  paid  by  the  power  of  his  sword  and 
his  pistols.  He  insisted  always  that  he  was  not  to  be  assessed,  but  that 
he  should  give  his  military  service  when  Russia  required  it  of  him. 

And  yet  there  was  true  orthodoxy  among  these  men  of  the  steppes. 
They  came  to  join  the  standard  with  respect  for  God  and  man,  no  matter 
what  had  been  the  route  by  which  they  had  come  into  the  organization. 

He  who  would  be  of  the  Cossacks  approaches  the  hetman.  His 
request  is  that  he  be  one  of  them. 

"  Dost  believe  in  Christ  ?  "  asks  the  hetman. 

"  I  do,"  is  the  reply. 

"  Go,  then,  Cossack,"  comes  the  answer.  "  Your  hut  is  there.  It  will 
be  shown  to  you." 

When  the  Cossack  communities  were  first  formed  they  were  inhabited 
only  by  men.  The  Kazachestvo  took  vows  of  celibacy.  It  was  an  order 
that  lived  like  anchorites  and  fought  like  demons. 

As  the  ages  have  passed  there  have  been  many  changes.  The  Cossacks 
have  families  and  their  own  home  life.    At  first,  however,  young  and 


I50  TVriCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

daring  youths  were  sent  out  to  ride  with  the  Cossacks,  and  there  was 
no  system  of  chivalry  more  punctilious  than  was  this  government  of  the 
men  of  the  steppes.  Offenses  that  involved  violation  of  their  vows  or  the 
ill  treatment  of  the  weak  and  the  oppressed  were  punished  with  death. 
The  sentences  were  quickly  imposed  and  speedily  executed.  Cowboy 
justice  and  Cossack  rule  are  the  same  in  principle. 

The  dress  of  the  Cossack  has  become  more  or  less  conventional  as 
the  years  have  gone.  We  see  him  in  the  long  coat  of  brown  or  of  green 
with  the  great  lambskin  cap  on  his  head,  with  strong  belts  containing 
cartridges  about  his  waist.  He  shows  the  influence  of  military  training. 
The  Cossack  today  is  a  model  of  elegance  compared  with  what  he  used 
to  be.  He  seized  garments  covered  with  gold  lace,  coats  of  silks  and 
sable  and  smeared  them  with  mire  and  tallow  to  show  his  supreme 
disregard  of  fine  trappings.  He  wore  coarse  garb,  but  in  the  care  of 
his  weapons  the  Cossack  has  always  been  punctilious. 

His  marksmanship  was  deadly  and  accurate  even  when  riding  at  full 
speed  as  that  of  the  cowboys  of  the  western  United  States.  The  Cos- 
sacks have  been  expert  swordsmen  for  centuries.  Their  proficiency  in 
arms  came  from  their  environment.  The  steppes  in  which  they  sought 
their  livelihood  were  covered  with  grass  often  so  high  that  only  the  head 
and  shoulders  of  riders  appeared  above  the  top  of  it.  Game  was  abun- 
dant in  those  thick  tangles,  fruit  could  be  obtained  easily,  the  rivers  teemed 
with  fish.  The  wants  of  the  Cossacks  were  few  and  simple.  They  could 
do  with  much  or  little.  A  slice  of  horse  flesh  carried  under  the  saddle  to 
keep  it  warm  was  a  ration  fit  to  be  called  a  luxury.  —  John  Walker 
Harrington,  in  Ne^v  York  Herald 

Editor's  Note.  This  story  of  the  Cossacks  was  doubtless  suggested  by 
the  Great  War  and  by  the  fact  that  many  of  these  picturesque  guardsmen  were 
fighting  in  the  ranks.  The  article  also  seeks  to  uproot  a  popular  conception  of 
the  Cossack  as  a  bewhiskered  outlaw  who  ravages  at  will.  An  interpretation 
of  his  personality  and  some  significant  facts  of  his  history  are  presented  in  this 
interesting  descriptive  sketch. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  151 

FOUNDER  OF  ASTOR  FORTUNE  TWICE  ESCAPED  SHIPWRECK 

That  Col.  John  Jacob  Astor  should  perish  in  the  sea,  by  shipwreck, 
seems  fatally  malign.  It  is  as  though  the  sea,  which  had  done  so  much 
for  the  prosperity  of  the  Astors,  had  at  last  exacted  its  inexorable  toll, 
but  only  after  more  than  a  century  of  waiting.  The  original  John  Jacob 
Astor  twice  escaped  shipwreck,  and  it  was  left  for  his  great-grandson 
to  pay  the  price. 

These  two  occasions  in  the  stormy  and  fascinating  life  of  that  German 
butcher's  boy  who  founded  the  Astor  fortune  loom  up  vividly  through 
forgotten  history  in  these  days  when  the  loss  of  the  Titanic  lies  over  us 
like  a  pall.  The  present  situation  has  no  relief ;  the  ancient  stories  had 
their  happy  endings  to  make  them  lovable.  They  have  been  repeated 
again  and  again  by  oldtime  New  Yorkers,  and  have  been  handed  down 
from  generation  to  generation  as  precious  revelations  of  the  curiously 
shrewd,  strong  character  who  founded  one  of  the  greatest  fortunes  of 
modem  times. 

The  first  incident  occurred  when  Astor  was  a  poor  boy  of  twenty, 
the  second  when  he  was  a  multi-millionaire  of  seventy ;  yet,  in  each,  he 
strove  to  command  the  situation,  though  luck  saved  him  in  each  instance. 

In  September,  1783,  John  Jacob  Astor  I  possessed  a  good  suit  of 
Sunday  clothes  as  well  as  a  working  suit,  and  about  fifteen  English 
guineas,  the  total  result  of  two  years  of  unremitting  toil  and  the  most 
pinching  economy  in  the  employ  of  his  brother  George's  flute  factory 
in  London. 

In  that  month  the  news  reached  London  that  Dr.  Franklin  and  his 
associates  in  Paris,  after  two  years  of  negotiation,  had  signed  the  defini- 
tive treaty  which  completed  the  independence  of  the  United  States, 
Franklin  had  been  in  the  habit  of  predicting  that  as  soon  as  America 
had  become  an  independent  nation  the  best  blood  in  Europe  and  some 
of  the  finest  fortunes  would  hasten  to  seek  a  career  or  an  asylum  in  the 
New  World.  Perhaps  he  would  not  have  recognized  the  emigration  of 
this  poor  German  boy,  then  just  turned  twenty,  as  part  of  the  fulfillment 
of  his  prophecy. 

Astor,  however,  no  sooner  heard  the  news  of  the  conclusion  of  the 
treaty  than  he  began  his  preparations  for  his  first  voyage  across  the 
Atlantic.  In  November  he  embarked  for  Baltimore,  paying  five  of  his 
guineas  for  a  passage  in  the  steerage,  which  entitled  him  to  sailors'  fare 


152  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

of  salt  beef  and  biscuit.  He  invested  part  of  his  remaining  capital  in 
seven  flutes,  which  he  purposed  to  sell  when  he  reached  New  York. 
His  remaining  cash  capital  amounted  to  £^. 

Contrast  that  first  Astor  trip  across  the  big  pond  with  the  last  Astor 
trip  in  the  Titanic.  The  first  John  Jacob  slept  on  a  hard  bunk  in  the 
steerage  ;  the  fourth  John  Jacob  Astor  occupied  the  imperial  suite.  That 
early  sailing  vessel  required  two  months  for  the  passage ;  the  Titanic 
was  to  have  done  it  in  a  few  days. 

In  only  one  way  were  the  two  trips  alike — in  the  severity  of  the  weather. 
The  winter  of  1 783-1 784  was  unusually  severe.  November  gales  and 
December  storms  wTeaked  all  their  fury  on  the  sailing  vessel,  and  her 
progress  was  so  retarded  that  it  was  the  middle  of  January  before  she 
reached  Chesapeake  Bay.  Then  came  the  adventure  with  the  ice,  not 
so  tragic  as  the  Titanic's,  but  full  of  peril  and  anxiety,  and  it  was  this 
adventure,  apparently  so  disastrous,  which  turned  young  Astor's  atten- 
tion to  the  profits  in  fur  dealing,  and  so  helped  him  toward  the  founda- 
tion of  his  fortune. 

Floating  ice  filled  Chesapeake  Bay  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  and 
a  January  storm  drove  the  ship  among  the  masses  with  such  force  that 
she  was  in  danger  of  being  broken  to  pieces.  The  ship  could  not  reach 
land,  and  was  being  driven  back  and  forth  in  sight  of  land,  unable  to 
penetrate  the  ice  further. 

On  one  of  these  days  of  peril  and  consternation,  according  to  James 
Parton,  who  said  that  he  had  the  story  from  the  master  of  the  vessel 
himself,  young  Astor  appeared  on  deck  in  his  best  clothes.  As  it  was 
raining  and  blowing  a  gale  his  fellow  shipmates  were  astounded,  and 
asked  the  meaning  of  his  remarkable  arrayment,  for  none  of  them 
had  before  seen  him  in  anything  but  his  worn,  cheap  suit  of  working 
clothes. 

Astor  explained  that  he  had  concluded  that  the  ship  was  about  to  sink, 
and  that  they  would  all  have  to  swim  for  it,  that  if  he  escaped  with  his 
life  he  would  have  his  best  clothes  with  him,  and  that  if  he  lost  it  his 
clothes  would  be  no  further  use  to  him. 

Another  incident  which  tradition  has  spared  from  that  long  wait  in 
Chesapeake  Bay  concerns  the  day  when  the  young  steerage  passenger 
ventured  upon  the  quarter-deck  only  to  be  roughly  ordered  forward  by 
the  captain.  The  same  captain,  twenty  years  later,  commanded  a  ship 
owned  by  the  steerage  passenger. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS         1 53 

When  the  ship  was  within  a  day's  sail  of  her  port,  Baltimore,  the  wind 
died  away,  the  cold  increased,  and  the  next  morning  beheld  the  vessel 
hard  and  fast,  frozen  in  a  sea  of  ice.  For  two  whole  months  she 
remained  immovable.  Provisions  gave  out,  and  the  passengers  were 
only  relieved  when  the  ice  extended  to  the  shore  and  became  strong 
enough  for  them  to  walk  to  the  coast. 

Some  of  the  passengers  thus  made  their  way  to  land  and  traveled  on 
to  their  homes,  but  Astor  was  not  among  these.  Money  was  required 
for  a  conveyance  to  the  nearest  city,  and  he  was  not  willing  to  pay  this, 
especially  as  the  purchase  of  his  passage  had  required  the  ship  to  land 
him  at  his  destination,  bed  and  board  provided.    So  he  stuck  to  the  ship. 

And  it  was  there,  subsisting  on  biscuit  and  salt  pork,  ice-locked  in 
Chesapeake  Bay,  that  young  Astor  learned  the  shortest  and  easiest  road 
to  fortune  then  afforded  a  poor  man  by  the  continent  of  North  America. 

Among  his  fellow  passengers  was  a  German,  ten  or  twelve  years  older 
than  himself,  with  whom  he  continually  associated  on  the  voyage  across. 
But  it  was  not  until  the  final  detention  in  the  bay  that  this  new  friend 
confided  in  Astor  the  secret  that  he  had  learned  of  how  to  buy  a  skin 
of  the  Indians  on  the  streets  of  New  York  and  sell  it  in  London  or 
Liverpool  for  twenty  times  the  purchase  price. 

The  stranger  beguiled  those  long  winter  evenings  by  telling  Astor  he 
had  come  to  America  a  poor  emigrant  only  a  few  years  before  without 
friends  or  money,  of  how  he  had  soon  managed  to  get  into  the  business 
of  buying  furs  of  the  Indians  and  the  boatmen  who  came  down  the 
Hudson  from  the  river  settlements.  He  said  that  he  had  finally  embarked 
all  his  capital  in  furs,  had  taken  them  to  England,  had  sold  to  a  good 
profit,  had  invested  all  the  proceeds  in  toys  and  trinkets,  and  was  now 
returning  to  the  wilderness  in  the  expectation  of  turning  his  money  over 
about  twenty  times  in  one  trip.  He  strongly  advised  Astor  to  follow  his 
example,  told  him  the  prices  of  the  various  skins  in  America  and  what 
they  commanded  in  England.  He  imparted  more  and  more  of  the 
secrets  of  the  craft  as  week  succeeded  week  and  they  were  still  ice- 
locked  ;  told  him  where  to  buy,  how  to  pack,  transport,  and  preserve 
the  skins ;  the  names  of  the  principal  dealers  in  New  York,  Montreal, 
and  London,  and  the  season  of  the  year  when  the  skins  were  the 
most  abundant. 

Astor  was  much  interested,  but  he  did  not  understand  how  he  could 
begin   a   business   without   capital.     The    stranger   explained    that    he 


154  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

required  practically  no  capital  for  a  beginning.  He  said  that  with  a 
basket  of  toys,  or  even  of  cakes,  a  man  could  buy  valuable  skins  in 
New  York,  and  that  they  could  be  immediately  sold  with  some  profit  to 
New  York  furriers,  although  he  was  careful  to  assert  that  the  grand 
object  was  to  establish  a  connection  with  a  house  in  London,  where  furs 
brought  four  or  five  times  their  value  in  New  York. 

The  ice  broke  up  in  March.  The  ship  made  its  way  to  Baltimore,  and 
the  two  friends  traveled  together  to  New  York.  There  John  Jacob  went 
to  the  house  of  his  brother,  Henry,  the  town  butcher,  and  the  following 
day  a  Quaker  furrier  named  Robert  Bowne  took  John  Jacob  Astor  to 
work  for  him  cleaning  pelts  at  $2  a  week. 

Thus  ice,  which  this  week  wiped  out  the  fourth  John  Jacob  Astor, 
was  chiefly  instrumental  in  directing  the  attention  of  the  first  John  Jacob 
to  the  business  which  started  his  fortune. 

It  was  half  a  century  later,  in  1835,  that  John  Jacob  Astor  was  in 
danger  of  shipwreck  for  the  second  time  in  his  life.  His  appearance  in 
that  episode  was  not  so  heroic  as  had  been  his  appearance  on  deck 
fifty  years  before  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  ready  cheerfully  to  accept  the 
hazards  of  a  wreck. 

He  was  worth  forty  millions  now.  He  was  the  richest  man  in  the  New 
World.  Yet  he  was  as  chary  of  spending  money  as  he  had  been  fifty 
years  before  when  he  had  the  chance  to  walk  ashore  on  the  ice  and  pay 
his  own  way  to  Baltimore,  yet  preferred  to  stay  with  the  ship  because 
it  cost  nothing. 

In  1832  he  made  a  trip  to  Austria  to  visit  one  of  his  daughters,  who 
had  married  Count  Rumpf.  He  was  with  her  for  three  years.  In  1835 
he  hurried  home  in  consequence  of  the  financial  panic  caused  by  Presi- 
dent Jackson's  war  upon  the  Bank  of  the  United  States.  The  captain  of 
the  ship  on  which  he  sailed  from  Havre  to  New  York  afterward  used  to 
regale  his  friends  with  his  account  of  Astor's  behavior  during  the  vovage. 

The  ship  was  on  the  point  of  sailing  from  Havre  and  every  stateroom 
was  engaged  when  the  aged  millionaire,  then  over  seventy,  reached  the 
dock.  He  was  so  anxious  to  get  home,  however,  that  the  captain,  who 
had  sailed  ships  for  him  in  former  years,  gave  up  for  Astor's  use  his 
own  stateroom. 

They  had  no  sooner  cleared  the  port,  however,  than  Astor  wanted  to 
be  set  ashore.  Head  winds  and  boisterous  seas  kept  the  vessel  tossing 
about  the  Channel  for  many  days,  and  the  great  man  grew  very  sick  and 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  155 

still  more  alarmed.  At  length  he  became  obsessed  with  the  idea  that  he 
was  destined  not  to  survive  the  voyage,  and  he  asked  the  captain  to  run 
in  and  set  him  ashore  on  the  coast  of  England. 

The  captain  dissuaded  him.  The  old  man  urged  his  request  at  eveiy 
opportunity,  and  said  at  last :  "  I  will  give  you  $1000  to  put  me  aboard 
a  pilot  boat."  He  was  so  vehement  and  importunate  that  one  day 
the  captain,  worried  out  of  all  patience,  promised  that  if  he  did  not 
get  out  of  the  Channel  before  the  next  morning  he  would  run  in  and 
put  him  ashore. 

It  happened  that  the  wind  changed  in  the  afternoon  and  wafted  the 
ship  back  again  into  the  broad  ocean.  But  the  troubles  of  the  seasick 
millionaire  had  only  just  begun.  A  heavy  gale  of  some  days'  duration 
blew  the  vessel  along  the  western  coast  of  Ireland.  Astor,  now  thor- 
oughly panic-stricken,  offered  the  captain  $10,000  if  he  would  put  him 
ashore  anywhere  on  the  wild  and  rocky  coast  of  the  Emerald  Isle.  In 
vain  the  captain  reminded  the  old  gentleman  of  the  danger  of  forfeiting 
his  insurance. 

"  Insurance !  "  exclaimed  Astor,  "  can't  I  insure  your  ship  myself  ?  " 

In  vain  the  captain  mentioned  the  rights  of  the  other  passengers.  In 
vain  he  described  the  solitary  and  rock-bound  coast,  and  detailed  the 
dangers  and  difficulties  which  attended  its  approach. 

Nothing  would  appease  Astor.  He  said  he  would  take  all  the  respon- 
sibility, brave  all  the  perils,  endure  all  the  consequences ;  only  let  him 
once  more  feel  the  firm  ground  under  his  feet.  He  knew  he  was  des- 
tined to  perish  on  this  voyage,  and  he  was  determined  to  cheat  the  fate 
that  lay  in  wait  for  him. 

Finally  the  gale  abated,  and  the  captain  yielded  to  his  entreaties.  He 
engaged,  if  the  other  passengers  would  consent  to  the  delay,  to  stand  in 
and  put  him  ashore,  provided  Astor  would  write  his  draft  for  $10,000 
to  cover  the  cost  of  the  ship  should  anything  happen  to  her  during 
the  unusual  and  perilous  episode  of  standing  in  to  shore  in  that 
unfrequented  spot. 

Astor  went  into  the  captain's  cabin  and  proceeded  to  write  what  was 
expected  to  be  a  draft  for  $10,000  in  favor  of  the  owners  of  the  ship  on 
his  agent  in  New  York.  He  labored  alone  for  a  long  while  and  finally 
appeared  before  the  captain,  on  the  quarter  deck,  with  the  result  of 
his  labors.  This  was  a  piece  of  paper  covered  with  writing  that  was 
totally  illegible. 


156  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  asked  the  captain. 

"  A  draft  upon  my  son  for  $10,000,"  was  the  reply. 

"  But  no  one  can  read  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  son  will  know  what  it  is.  My  hand  trembles  so  that  I 
cannot  write  any  better." 

"  But,"  said  the  captain,  "  you  can  at  least  write  your  name.  I  am 
acting  for  the  owners  of  the  ship,  and  I  cannot  risk  their  property  for  a 
piece  of  paper  that  no  one  can  read.  Let  one  of  the  gentlemen  draw 
up  a  draft  in  proper  form  ;  you  sign  it;  and  I  will  put  you  ashore." 

Astor  would  not  consent  to  this,  and  the  captain  stood  out  to  sea.  In 
relating  the  incident,  he  always  added  that  the  wind  dropped  just  about 
the  time  Astor  disappeared  in  the  cabin  to  write  out  his  order. 

A  favorable  wind  now  blew  the  vessel  swiftly  on  her  way,  and  Astor's 
alarm  subsided.  Yet,  even  on  the  Banks  of  Newfoundland,  two  thirds 
of  the  way  across,  when  the  captain  went  upon  the  poop  to  speak  a 
ship  bound  for  Liverpool,  old  Astor  climbed  up  after  him,  saying,  "  Tell 
them  I  will  give  a  thousand  dollars  if  they  take  a  passenger." 

The  captain  paid  no  attention  to  him.  A  week  later  they  were  safe 
in  New  York,  and  Astor  never  went  to  sea  again,  though  he  lived 
another  fourteen  years. 

The  perils  of  those  days  seemed  so  grave !  Yet,  in  presence  of  the 
Titanic's,  how  insignificant.  —  Richard  Barry,  in  Neiv  York  Titnes 

Editor's  Note.  News  announcement  that  John  Jacob  Astor  had  lost  his 
life  in  the  sinking  of  the  Titanic  furnishes  the  basis  for  this  story.  The  strange 
intervention  of  the  sea  into  the  destinies  of  both  Astors  —  in  one  instance 
spelling  fortune,  in  another  bringing  death  —  is  given  strong  emphasis.  The 
personality  of  the  original  John  Jacob  Astor,  a  poor  boy  who  became  a  multi- 
millionaire, gives  the  article  an  added  glow  of  interest.  The  story  is  one  of 
hundreds  written  around  the  hub  of  the  Tita}iic  disaster.  This  record  of  per- 
sonal achievement,  coupled  with  the  glamour  of  a  great  name,  has  the  grip  of 
fiction.  It  has  the  merit,  however,  of  being  an  authentic  record  of  real  experi- 
ences.   Even  Astor's  fear  of  the  sea  gives  it  a  peculiarly  human  value. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  157 

PAVLOWA  IS  SATIN  AND  WIRE 

Pavlowa  is  steel  wire  wrapped  in  satin.  The  shining,  flowing  softness 
of  fine  fabric,  the  ductile  flexibility  of  wire,  the  tenuous  strength,  yielding 
yet  unyielding,  of  steel  combine  to  make  her  the  world's  greatest  dancer. 
Emphasis  is  laid  on  the  physical,  for  after  one  has  spent  an  hour  with 
her  behind  the  scenes  he  realizes  that  to  dance  like  a  fairy  requires  the 
endurance  of  an  athlete  and  the  muscles  of  an  iron  molder. 

Pavlowa  is  the  first  of  the  company  in  the  theater.  You  might  have 
seen  her  shortly  after  noon  yesterday,  a  small  dark  woman  walking  from 
the  Hotel  Tuller  to  the  Broadway.  Once  in  her  dressing  room,  she  slips 
out  of  her  great  fur  coat  and  as  quickly,  into  her  flesh-colored  tights,  a 
tight  waist  and  a  filmy  dress  of  silk  which  leaves  her  arms  bare  and  her 
limbs  free.  Then  with  a  wisp  of  silk  across  her  shoulder,  she  picks  her 
way  down  the  dark  stairs  and  onto  the  gloomy  stage.  No  wonder  she 
wants  to  leave  the  cramped  and  cheerless  dressing  room,  but  she  ex- 
changes it  for  the  vast,  windy  stage.    Here  the  work  of  the  day  begins. 

Standing  in  secluded  parts  of  the  stage  are  after  a  while  other  dancers 
—  little  girls  some  of  them,  mature  woman  others,  young  men  and  older 
men  —  all  practicing,  practicing.  Some  of  them  stand  in  difficult  pos- 
tures and  swing  a  leg  at  right  angles  to  the  body  as  easily  as  you  would 
swing  your  arm.  And  swing  it  not  once  or  twice,  but  hundreds  of  times 
with  the  fervor  of  a  whirling  dervish. 

Pavlowa's  part  in  the  rehearsal  is  to  instruct  the  younger  members  of 
the  ballet.  Yesterday  afternoon  two  girls  not  over  sixteen  years  of  age 
were  being  trained  by  the  incomparable.  Pavlowa  sat  wearily,  leaning 
against  the  curtain.  The  two  lovely  young  women  danced  and  she 
watched.  Then  suddenly  she  sprang  up,  pouring  out  a  stream  of  bird 
notes  —  Russian  bird  notes  —  and  the  two  sprites  listened.  And  how 
they  listened !  Not  with  the  air  of  boredom  which  the  chorus  girl 
affects  when  instructed,  but  with  the  intent  determination  of  the  student 
who  is  sitting  at  the  feet  of  a  master  and  is  eager  to  learn. 

One  of  them  was  poised  on  one  toe,  the  other  leg  extended  horizon- 
tally behind.  Then  Pavlowa  took  that  leg  in  both  her  hands  and  held  it 
so,  expostulating  the  while  ;  then  she  placed  it  so,  with  more  explanation. 
Thus  she  illustrated  the  right  way  and  the  wrong  way.  Again  the  rosy 
nymph  danced,  and  this  time  the  incomparable  was  satisfied,  and  said  so. 
The  dance  continued,  and  Pavlowa  drooped  on  the  rough  stool  again. 


158  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

listless  yet  watchful,  only  to  galvanize  into  leaping  life  again  when  the 
steps  needed  guidance. 

Off  the  stage  Pavlowa  appears  a  very  tired,  not  young,  woman.  Pier 
face  is  shadowed  by  many  hollows  of  fatigue,  her  black  eyes  burn  in  her 
thin,  dead-white  countenance.  Her  scant  black  hair  is  drawn  severely 
over  both  ears,  a  dusky  frame  for  the  almost  peaked  face.  But  on  the 
stage  it  is  different.  The  shadows  are  gone,  the  hollows  are  filled  out, 
the  eyes  flash  with  high  spirits.  Emotion  kindles  a  light  in  the  face  — 
the  light  of  genius.  The  frame  seems  to  cast  off  "  this  muddy  vesture 
of  decay  "  which  closes  us  in,  and  partakes  of  the  ethereal.  Then  you 
know  you  are  watching  the  world's  greatest  dancer. 

Traveling,  Pavlowa  is  as  democratic  as  in  rehearsal.  Max  Hirsch, 
her  manager,  says  that  when  the  company  is  settled  in  its  car  the  girls 
take  out  their  embroidery  and  the  men  their  writing  materials.  It  is  very 
quiet.  Now  and  then  the  voice  of  the  incomparable  is  heard  discussing  a 
dance  step.  Sometimes  she  demonstrates  in  the  aisle.  Always  she  visits 
among  the  dancers,  suggesting,  helping,  creating. 

Alone,  she  takes  out  a  box  of  water  colors  and  designs  costumes  and 
scener)''  for  the  ballets.  Or  she  reads  of  the  war.  She  won't  talk  about 
it,  for  she  said  yesterday :  "  I  am  neutral  as  you  are.  I  love  Berlin.  The 
kaiser  always  entertains  me  there  in  his  private  box  with  the  kaiserin.  I 
love  England  and  France  and,  of  course,  Russia,  my  home.  They  are 
all  my  friends.    I  must  not  talk  of  it." 

Pavlowa  and  all  her  dancers  are  devoted  to  the  movies.  Most  of  them 
speak  no  English,  but  the  cinema,  as  they  call  it,  speaks  a  universal 
language  and  in  it  they  find  their  relaxation. 

When  Pavlowa  meets  you,  she  shakes  your  hand  and  you  imagine  it 
is  in  a  vise.  Her  fingers  are  slender,  but  they  close  over  your  fingers 
until  the  bones  crack :  steel  wire  and  satin. 

The  gentle  nature  of  the  dancer  was  demonstrated  yesterday  after- 
noon by  an  incident  which  escaped  the  notice  of  all  but  a  few  spectators. 
In  the  second  row  with  her  mother  sat  a  girl  of  about  six  years.  She 
perched  on  the  edge  of  the  seat,  fluttering  as  though  she  would  fly  to 
the  stage.  Pavlowa  caught  the  enthusiasm  of  the  child  and  smiled  to 
her.  Then  just  before  the  last  dance  an  usher  handed  the  girl  a  big  box 
of  candy  and  a  photograph  of  the  incomparable  across  which  was  written  : 
"  To  a  darling  little  girl  from  Anna  Pavlowa."  The  child  was  entranced, 
completely  captured  by  the  dancer's  notice  of  her,  and  when  at  the  end 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS         1 59 

of  the  bacchanale  Pavlowa  threw  her  a  kiss  from  the  stage  the  child 
was  almost  too  delighted  to  wave  a  rose  leaf  hand  in  answer. 

Pavlowa  seems  much  like  a  child.  Did  not  the  fountain  of  youth 
bubble  in  her  heart  she  could  never  translate  the  gossamer  emotions  of 
poets  into  motion.  She  vitalizes  that  fine  lyrical  frenzy  as  only  genius 
can.    She  is  the  world's  greatest  dancer. —  A.  L.  Weeks,  in  Detroit  News 

Editor's  Note.  The  Pavlowa  story  is  an  admirable  example  of  a  news 
story,  a  feature  story,  and  a  human-interest  story  blended  into  one.  The  news 
element  lies  in  the  fact  that  Pavlowa  was  in  Detroit  and  had  been  recognized 
by  many  hundreds  of  people ;  the  feature  element  in  the  fact  that  the  inter- 
view, instead  of  taking  place  in  the  conventional  hotel  room  or  dressing  room, 
occurs  on  the  stage  at  a  rehearsal ;  and  the  human-interest  is  found  in  the 
picture  of  the  world's  greatest  dancer,  represented  not  as  a  fairy  but  as  a  very 
tired  woman,  no  longer  young. 

Apropos  of  the  story,  its  author  wrote  these  words  to  the  compiler : 
"  I  interviewed  Pavlowa  the  year  before  and  so  I  knew  we  had  nothing  in 
common  linguistically,  for  she  speaks  Petrograd  French  and  I  French  acquired 
at  Ann  Arbor.  So  instead  of  seeking  an  interview  through  her  manager  on  the 
morning  of  her  arrival,  I  went  to  the  theater  at  noon,  got  '  back  stage '  and 
waited.  Sure  enough  in  half  an  hour  or  so  the  story  worked  out  before  me. 
The  words  quoted  came,  not  from  Pavlowa,  but  from  her  manager,  who  was  will- 
ing to  talk  for  her.  I  merely  visited  her  dressing  room  during  the  afternoon  to 
clasp  her  hand  and  to  see  if  she  remembered  me  from  the  year  previous  (which 
she  did  not).  The  incident  at  the  end  of  the  story  —  the  little  girl  to  whom  Pav- 
lowa gave  the  candy  and  photograph  —  fortunately  took  place  before  me,  too, 
for  the  child  sat  directly  in  front  of  me.  Accident,  which  plays  so  important  a 
part  in  the  day's  work  of  the  reporter,  was  responsible  for  what  seems  to  me 
the  best  feature  of  the  story.  In  fact,  the  rest  of  the  story  was  largely  the  result 
of  accident.  If  I  had  been  equipped  with  Russian  French,  I  should  have  inter- 
viewed Pavlowa  tiresomely.  However,  I  do  not  advise  students  in  journalism 
to  shun  the  study  of  languages  for  this  reason." 


JOHN   MUIR,  THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  YOSEMITE 

As  all  the  nation  was  aglow  with  holiday  merriment  last  week  the 
flame  of  life  was  snuffed  out  in  one  of  its  noblest  men.  John  Muir 
was  dead. 

If  trees  had  tongues,  if  brooks  wrote  books,  if  stones  could  preach, 
the  forests,  fields  and  mountains  of  America  would  now  be  joining  tongue 
and  pen  in  a  most  solemn  memorial.    John  Muir  was  their  friend. 


i6o  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

The  life  of  this  man,  who  died  December  24  in  a  Los  Angeles  hospital, 
is  more  romantic  than  fiction.  He  was  born  in  Scotland  in  1838,  the  son 
of  a  hard-working  father.  At  the  age  of  eleven  years  he  came  to  America 
with  his  parents,  and  almost  since  that  day  the  world  has  been  beating  a 
path  to  the  outdoor  nooks  he  has  made  his  living  place. 

His  father  settled  in  Wisconsin  in  1849.  Here,  on  a  backwoods  clear- 
ing, the  boy  began  his  work.  His  father's  idea  of  discipline  denied  him 
much  recreation  during  the  day.  The  father,  a  stern,  unbending  Scots- 
man, believed  idle  hands  made  the  idle  boy.    Books  were  for  grown-ups. 

John  Muir  wanted  books.  Penally  an  agreement  was  reached  whereby 
he  could  study.  Ten  hours  had  been  his  sleeping  period.  All  he  could 
lilch  from  that  he  could  give  to  books. 

So  John  Muir  began  his  education.  He  used  his  will  for  a  mental 
alarm  clock.  He  cut  the  ten  hours  to  five  and  began  spending  half  the 
night,  in  the  cellar  where  he  could  disturb  no  one,  reading  Shakespeare, 
Scott,  Burns,  Bunyan,  studying  botany  and  mathematics.  He  had  an 
inventive  streak  and  with  a  jack  knife  and  pieces  of  wood  spent  hours 
on  construction.  Though  he  had  never  seen  the  mechanism  of  a  clock, 
he  carved  one  of  wood  that  kept  time,  struck  the  hours  and  indicated 
the  moon's  changes. 

Neighboring  farmers  admired  the  boy's  inventions  and  persuaded  him  to 
take  them  to  the  state  fair  at  Madison.  There  they  attracted  much  attention, 
and  the  friendly  interest  of  some  people  in  Madison  incited  him  to  enter 
the  University  of  Wisconsin.  He  worked  his  way,  taking  a  special  course 
in  chemistry,  botany  and  mathematics.  He  left  without  a  degree,  but  later 
his  college  and  Harvard  both  were  honored  by  giving  him  degrees. 

He  was  very  methodical  in  his  habits  at  college  and  devised  a  machine 
to  facilitate  his  routine.  The  device,  operated  by  clockwork,  lit  the  fire 
in  his  grate  in  the  morning,  rang  an  alarm  bell  to  wake  him  up,  and 
automatically  brought  up  his  textbooks,  one  at  a  time,  on  a  study  shelf 
in  the  order  and  at  the  hour  that  he  preferred  to  study  each. 

From  college,  Mr.  Muir  explored  alone  the  region  of  the  Great  Lakes. 
His  special  interests  were  botany  and  geology.  After  this  trip  he  had 
trouble  with  his  eyes  and  was  threatened  with  total  blindness.  He  deter- 
mined to  see  as  much  of  the  beauty  of  the  world  as  he  could  before  he 
should  lose  the  power  to  see.  He  started  tramping  again,  sleeping  in  the 
open  wherever  night  overtook  him,  and  gathering  botanical  specimens 
as  he  went. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  l6i 

At  Indianapolis  he  ran  out  of  funds.  For  a  year  he  managed  a  wood- 
working shop  in  the  absence  of  the  owner.  When  the  owner  returned  he 
found  his  shop  producing  as  much  as  ever  with  about  half  the  former 
force  of  men,  because  of  several  inventions  that  Muir  had  installed.  He 
offered  Muir  a  partnership,  but  the  offer  was  refused.  Mr.  Muir  con- 
tinued his  tramp  through  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  Georgia  and  Florida.  At 
Tampa  he  embarked  for  Cuba,  intending  to  go  on  to  South  America  to 
explore  the  Amazon.  But  after  an  attack  of  Cuban  fever  he  sailed,  by 
way  of  the  isthmus,  to  California. 

He  landed  in  San  Francisco  in  1873.  The  city  was  gay  and  prosper- 
ous, and  he  was  almost  penniless.  But  one  day  of  town  was  enough  for 
him.  The  next  morning  he  asked  a  man  on  the  street,  "  Where  is  the 
Sierra  Nevada  ? " 

"  Over  yonder,"  replied  the  man,  pointing  east. 

And  Mr.  Muir  started  to  walk  to  the  Sierra,  a  hundred  miles  away. 

For  thirty  years  he  lived  among  these  mountains,  exploring  one  huge 
section  of  them  so  minutely  that  there  is  scarcely  a  single  peculiar  rock 
formation  or  tree  of  unusual  size  that  is  not  recorded  in  his  notebooks. 

For  one  period  of  ten  years  he  saw  white  men  almost  as  rarely  as  a 
New  Yorker  sees  a  blanket  Indian  on  Broadway.  During  these  years  he 
proved  scientifically  that  the  Yosemites  were  formed  by  glacial  erosion 
and  not  by  a  prehistoric  cataclysm,  as  scientists  before  him  had  contended. 
He  traced  the  course  of  nearly  every  glacier  that,  ages  ago,  carved  out 
the  mountains  and  canyons  of  the  Sierra,  and  he  discovered  nearly  every 
one  of  the  remnant  glaciers  on  the  higher  range. 

He  gave  to  science  its  first  accurate  knowledge  of  the  big  trees.  Fle 
discovered  one  of  the  greatest  glaciers  in  the  world  in  Alaska  —  named 
the  Muir  Glacier.  He  wrote  books  and  articles  for  newspapers  and  mag- 
azines that  are  the  highest  authority  on  the  greatest  mountain  range  in 
North  America  and  on  the  greatest  forests  in  the  world. 

He  recently  discovered  two  "  petrified  forests  "  in  Arizona  that  had 
never  been  recorded  before. 

The  patience  and  hardihood  required  by  his  method  of  investigation 
were  astonishing.  Years  ago  he  refused  several  offers  of  professorships 
of  botany  and  geology  in  Eastern  colleges. 

"  No,"  was  his  reply, ''  there  are  already  too  many  men  teaching  things 
they  have  got  out  of  books.  What  are  needed  are  original  investigators 
to  write  new  books." 


l62  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Therefore  he  devoted  his  life  to  research.  He  went  alone  into  unex- 
plored wildernesses,  carrying  practically  no  luggage  and  using  no  pack 
animal.  For  years  his  camp  equipment  in  the  mountains,  summer  and 
winter,  consisted  of  a  tin  cup,  a  packet  of  tea,  a  sack  of  bread  and  a 
hand  ax.  He  never  carried  arms,  tent  or  even  blankets.  He  was  therefore 
able  to  go  where  only  goats  had  been  before  him,  and  to  live  for  weeks 
where  only  the  birds  had  before  found  sustenance. 

John  Muir  married  late  in  life.  His  bride  was  Miss  Louise  Strutzel, 
daughter  of  a  widely  known  Polish  refugee.  Two  daughters  survive  him, 
Mrs.  Muir  having  died  several  years  ago. 

It  is  privileged  to  few  men  to  love  nature  as  did  John  Muir.  In  his 
"  From  my  First  Summers  in  the  Sierra,"  he  says : 

I  should  like  to  dwell  with  them  forever.  Here  with  bread  and  water  I  should 
be  content.  Even  if  not  allowed  to  roam  and  climb,  tethered  to  a  stake  or  tree  in 
some  meadow  or  grove,  even  then  I  should  be  content  forever.  Bathed  in  such 
beauty,  watching  the  expressions  ever  varying  on  the  faces  of  the  mountains, 
watching  the  stars,  which  here  have  a  glory  that  the  lowlander  never  dreams  of, 
watching  the  circling  seasons,  listening  to  the  songs  of  the  waters  and  winds  and 
birds,  would  be  endless  pleasure.  And  what  glorious  cloudlands  I  should  see, 
storms  and  calms  —  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth  every  day,  aye  and  new  in- 
habitants. And  how  many  visitors  I  should  have.  I  feel  sure  I  should  not  have 
one  dull  moment.  And  why  should  this  appear  extravagant?  It  is  only  common 
sense,  a  sign  of  health,  genuine,  natural,  all-awake  health.  One  should  be  at  an 
endless  Godful  play,  and  what  speeches  and  music  and  acting  and  scenery  and 
sights  !  Sun,  moon,  stars,  auroras  ;  creation  just  beginning,  the  morning  stars  still 
singing  together  and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouting  for  joy. 

It  is  an  irony  of  fate  that  he  should  have  died  in  a  hospital.  He  wanted 
to  surrender  life,  out  of  doors,  preferably  in  the  mountains  he  loved  so  well. 

"  I  never  had  contempt  of  death,"  he  said  once  when  asked  about  the 
dangers  of  glacier  exploration,  "  though  in  the  course  of  my  explorations 
I  oftentimes  felt  that  to  meet  one's  fate  on  a  mountain,  in  a  grand  can- 
yon, or  in  the  heart  of  a  crystal  glacier  would  be  blessed  as  compared 
with  death  from  disease,  a  mean  accident  in  a  street  or  from  a  sniff  of 
sewer  gas." 

Once  when  he  was  troubled  with  bronchitis  he  suddenly  announced 
his  intention  to  go  to  Alaska  and  live  on  a  glacier  until  it  left  him.  "'  But 
it  will  mean  your  death,  John,"  his  wife  remonstrated. 

"  Rather  my  life,  you  mean,"  he  replied.    He  went,  and  he  was  right. 

Yet,  after  all,  pneumonia  caused  his  death,  and  in  a  hospital.  — 
Kansas  City  Times 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  163 

Editor's  Note.  Rare  sympathy  for  the  life  and  ideals  of  John  Muir,  the 
hermit  of  the  Yosemite,  is  displayed  in  this  feature  story.  The  man's  person- 
ality and  his  kinship  for  the  big  woods  and  the  silent  places  are  well  set  forth. 
The  fact  that  he  did  not  die  in  the  open,  but  in  a  hospital  from  pneumonia,  is 
one  of  life's  ironies  that  is  dwelt  upon  both  in  the  opening  paragraph  and  in 
the  concluding  sentence.  The  romance  of  his  career,  his  varied  interests,  and 
his  native  gifts  of  appreciation  are  accentuated  throughout  the  story. 


THANKSGIVING  AND  CHRISTMAS 

THE  SENSATIONAL  ANTE-MORTEM  STATEMENT  OF  A.  T. 
GOBBLER,  ESQ. 

For  some  time  past  I  have  been  impressed  with  the  feeling  that  I  am 
not  long  for  this  world.  A  strange,  haunting  conviction  that  some  dreadful 
tragedy  was  impending  pursued  me  like  a  fox.  Last  night  something 
happened  that  removed  all  uncertainty,  and  today  I  KNOW, 

I,  A.  Turkey  Gobbler,  Esq.,  am  doomed. 

No,  this  is  not  the  raving  of  an  unbalanced  mind,  nor  the  melancholic 
depression  following  indigestion.  No  turkey  living  has  a  better  appetite 
or  sounder  crop  than  I  have  at  this  minute,  and  there  never  was  any 
insanity  in  our  family. 

In  a  word,  I  heard  them,  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  talking  of  Thanks- 
giving Day,  and  I  distinctly  caught  the  mention  of  my  name. 

I  have  lived  with  Mr.  Man  and  Mrs.  Woman  nearly  all  my  life  and 
since  I  grew  up  have  helped  them  to  run  the  place.  I  have  always  had 
the  kindliest  feelings  for  them,  and  even  now  that  I  know,  I  feel  no 
bitterness  toward  them,  and  it  is  for  that  reason  that  I  am  leaving  this 
ante-mortem  statement.  I  wish  them  to  read  this  when  I  am  no  more, 
and  to  know  that  I  died  like  a  real  turkey.  I  also  wish  to  shield  any 
innocent  persons  from  being  unjustly  accused  of  my  murder. 

Know  then,  all  whom  this  may  concern,  and  especially  you  people 
of  Pittsburg,  where  I  expect  my  body  to  be  sent  for  ultimate  disposal, 
that  I  died,  not  in  a  vulgar  fight,  nor  by  the  hand  of  an  assassin,  but 
strictly  in  the  discharge  of  a  duty,  to  which,  after  Mr.  Man's  hired  boy 
had  caught  me  and  tied  my  feet,  I  felt  irresistibly  drawn. 

It  is  not  pleasant  to  think  of  leaving  the  warm,  sunshiny  barnyard  ;  of 
never  settling  down  again  comfortably  on  my  favorite  limb  in  the  apple 
tree  for  a  good  night's  sleep,  or  never  seeing  Mrs.  Woman  or  her  little 


l64  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

girl  bring  out  a  big  dish  of  nice,  clean  corn  for  my  supper.  But  if  one 
must  go,  one  seeks  to  find  some  consolation  to  take  with  him,  so  while 
I  am  not  exactly  happy,  I  try  to  feel  resigned  to  my  fate  in  the  thought 
of  the  pleasure  that  I  am  going  to  give  to  others  on  Thanksgiving  Day 
—  which,  take  it  from  me,  will  be  much. 

I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  for  if  I  do  say  it  myself,  as  should  n't, 
"  there  are  mighty  few  turkeys  of  my  age  in  the  Ohio  valley  who  have 
bigger,  shaplier  legs,  finer  wings,  a  bigger,  firmer  breast  or  a  thicker, 
rounder  neck  than  yours  truly."  These  are  points  that  appeal  strongly 
to  the  human  mind,  for  I  have  often  heard  my  master  and  mistress  say 
so,  and  they  know.  I  wish  I  could  walk  into  that  certain  dining  room 
in  Pittsburg  where  I  am  to  play  such  an  important  part  in  the  feasting, 
and  see  how  the  cook  fixes  me  up. 

I  hardly  expect  I  '11  look  very  natural,  but  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  if 
I  could  call  the  diners'  attention  to  those  big  round  legs  of  mine  and  my 
towering,  swelling  wishbone.  Everybody,  even  people,  have  to  die  some- 
time, so  what 's  the  use  in  me  worrying,  especially  when  I  am  going  to 
have  such  a  funeral.  Thanksgiving  Day,  Christmas  and  New  Year's  Day 
are  the  principal  funeral  days  for  us  turkeys.  Incidentally,  I  wonder  if 
those  Turks  the  papers  are  talking  so  much  about  these  days  are  any 
relatives  of  mine.  The  name  is  not  spelt  quite  the  same  as  we  in  Amer- 
ica write  it.  For  my  part  I  am  glad  that  fellow.  Czar  Ferdinand,  lives 
in  Bulgaria,  for  he  seems  to  have  absolutely  no  regard  for  the  calendar 
but  kills  Turks  whenever  and  wherever  he  finds  them. 

Now,  it  is  so  nice  and  different  in  this  country.  As  I  said,  there  are 
three  days  in  the  year  which  are  very  trying  to  turkeys,  but  during  all 
the  rest  of  the  year  we  are  treated  fine  and  dandy,  live  on  the  best  the 
house  and  barn  provide  and  are  jealously  guarded  from  harm. 

Many  's  the  fox  I  've  laughed  at  as  he  slid  away  in  dashing  flight  when 
Mr.  Man  discovered  him  skulking  too  close  to  us  roosting  fowls.  And 
I  've  seen  more  than  one  of  them  fall  down  and  die,  too,  when  Mr.  Man 
got  a  fair  shot  at  them  with  his  terrible  gun.  Once  a  fox  nearly  caught 
me,  and  I  've  hated  everything  that  even  looks  like  a  fox  ever  since.  It 
happened  long,  long  ago,  last  year,  when  I  was  a  mere  stripling,  with  long, 
scrawny  legs,  no  weight  to  speak  of  and  the  weakest  and  most  mortifying 
of  gobbles.  But  like  youngsters  the  world  over,  I  had  a  pretty  good 
opinion  of  myself  and  thought  I  knew  more  than  my  elders,  and  so 
when  my  good  old  uncle  tried  to  get  me  to  roost  high  up  among  the  old 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  165 

folks  I  laughed  in  his  face,  spread  my  tail  and  strutted  away,  calling  back 
that  the  fence  was  good  enough  for  me  and  that  cowards  or  old  women 
would  desert  its  comfortable  perch  for  a  tree  lodging.  My  uncle  had 
always  looked  after  me  in  his  kindly  way,  after  the  tragic  death  of  my 
father,  who  passed  away  suddenly  one  day  in  the  woods.  I  have  only  the 
faintest  recollection  of  him,  but  the  picture  that  still  hngers  in  my  mind 
is  of  a  great,  big,  splendid-looking  bird,  with  a  majestic  bald  head  proudly 
carried  on  a  large,  bare  throat,  and  a  glistening  dewlap  that  was  at  once 
the  envy  and  despair  of  all  the  other  turkeys  of  the  neighborhood. 

My  mother  often  told  me  of  my  father's  manifold  charms  and  accom- 
plishments ;  of  his  lovely,  powerful  voice,  in  which  the  baritone  and  fal- 
setto combined  in  what  she  termed  the  most  compelling  and  beautiful 
gobble  she  ever  heard  ;  of  his  strong  feet  and  sturdy  shanks,  armed  with 
a  pair  of  noble  spurs,  and  of  his  bronze-black  feathers.  Once  I  heard 
some  of  her  friends,  including  a  couple  of  gossipy  widows,  snickering 
among  themselves  while  my  mother  was  talking  thus,  and  one  of  them 
said  :  "  Oh,  yes,  he  certainly  was  a  bird  all  right,"  and  another  chimed 
in,  "  Yes,  I  should  say  so ;  why  he  used  to  go  away  from  his  family  and 
stay  for  a  week  at  a  time  in  the  woods,"  and  then  my  mother  got  very 
angry  indeed. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  expeditions  of  poor  Dad's  that  he  ran  foul  of 
a  prowling  hunter,  who  murdered  him  and  carried  him  away,  and  we 
never  saw  him  again.  But  as  I  was  saying,  although  I  had  every  reason 
to  respect  and  love  my  uncle,  I  scorned  his  advice  about  the  fence, 
and  that  night,  to  show  how  utterly  free  of  fear  I  was,  I  roosted  on  a 
particularly  low  part  of  the  fence.  And  deliberately  lulling  myself  into 
a  sense  of  security,  I  went  sound  asleep. 

Suddenly  the  frantic  gobbling  of  my  uncle  from  a  near-by  tree 
awakened  me  ;  awakened  me  just  in  time  to  give  a  sudden  bound  straight 
up  into  the  air  as  a  long,  dark,  lithe  body  shot  onto  the  fence.  It  was  a 
fox,  and  the  click  of  his  snapping  jaws,  which  just  grazed  my  neck,  scared 
me  almost  to  death.  Once  awake  and  off  the  fence,  I  easily  flew  up  into 
the  tree,  and  was  glad  to  crowd  in  close  to  my  uncle  for  the  rest  of  the 
night.  From  then  on,  although  at  times  I  swaggered  and  displayed  my 
vanity,  I  treated  my  uncle's  words  with  more  respect.  It  was  from  him 
I  first  heard  of  Thanksgiving  Day,  Christmas  and  New  Year's  Day,  and 
of  the  common  fate  of  all  turkeys,  and  at  first  I  rebelled  bitterly  and 
denounced  his  philosophical  views  as  a  tame  and  unworthy  submission 


l66  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

to  injustice.  I  talked  open  revolt  all  over  the  barnyard  for  the  next  few 
days,  and  offered  to  head  a  party  and  fly  to  the  woods  where  we  could 
enjoy  freedom  and  not  live  under  the  perpetual  shadow  of  the  impend- 
ing ax.  My  eloquence  failed  utterly,  even  the  chickens  and  those  odious 
duck  creatures  putting  on  superior  airs  and  hinting  that  I  was  crazy 
with  the  pip. 

Remember,  kind  reader,  that  I  was  then  but  eight  months  old ;  that 
I  was  but  a  hot-headed  youth,  and  that  life  was  very  dear  to  me ; 
remember  that  I  had  been  publicly  laughed  at  by  the  whole  barnyard  com- 
munity, and  then  do  not  judge  me  harshly  when  I  confess  that  I  stole 
away  alone  myself  that  afternoon,  and  never  stopped  until  I  had  reached 
a  dense  grove  away  off.  As  soon  as  the  sun  went  down  I  took  to  a  tall 
tree's  limb,  and  waited  until  it  was  light  next  morning  before  I  ventured 
down.  I  fairly  reveled  in  good  things  that  day ;  I  had  never  imagined 
there  were  so  many  delicious  grubs  and  bugs  of  all  kinds,  to  say  nothing 
of  tast)',  tender  leaves  and  roots  and  berries.  The  weeks  that  followed 
went  all  too  swiftly,  and  then  my  golden  dream  was  followed  by  cold, 
frosty  nights  amid  leafless  trees  and  long  cold,  snowy  days  in  which  I 
could  do  nothing  but  search  almost  in  vain  for  sustenance. 

One  day,  to  my  immense  joy,  I  found  a  grain  of  corn.  How  good  it 
tasted  I  A  few  feet  away  I  came  on  a  couple  more,  and  still  farther  on 
there  was  another  and  another.  I  hurried  along  the  delicious  trail, 
gulping  the  corn  with  feverish  haste,  and  then,  on  the  other  side  of  a 
rude  fence  of  upright  posts,  I  saw  a  whole  dish  of  the  food  I  had  craved 
and  sought  so  long.  It  was  just  beyond  my  reach,  but  I  soon  came  to 
an  opening  through  which  I  could  just  squeeze,  and  in  I  went,  and  made 
short  work  of  my  meal.  Then  to  my  surprise,  my  very  great  surprise, 
I  found  that  the  fence  was  on  all  sides  of  me.  Round  and  round  I  went, 
but  never  a  break  could  I  find.  Then  to  my  horror  I  discovered  that 
across  the  surrounding  fence  were  laid  strips  of  wood.  I  could  not  fly 
out  —  I  was  trapped  ! 

For  hours  I  rushed  round  and  round  that  turkey  pen  (for  such  I 
afterwards  learned  it  was),  with  my  head  strained  high  up,  looking  in  vain 
for  a  place  of  escape.  And  then  I  heard  a  rustling  and  tramping  of  foot- 
steps, and  there  was  Mr.  Man  and  his  little  girl.  She  laughed  and 
clapped  her  hands,  and  said,  "  Oh,  there  you  are,  you  dear  old  Tommy ! 
[my  name  is  not  Tommy,  but  she  had  always  called  me  so,  and  1  was 
not  old  either,  but  everything  she  liked  she  called  ''old."]   I  was  so  afraid 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  167 

we  would  n't  be  able  to  find  you.  And  now  you  must  come  home  with  us, 
and  be  a  good  old  Tommy,  and  not  run  off  any  more." 

Mr.  Man  said  something  about  betting  his  boots  that  I  would  n't  run 
away  any  more,  for  he  "d  cut  off  my  blooming  wings  ;  but  he  did  n't  do  that, 
for  my  little  mistress,  the  girl,  begged  and  coaxed  until  he  relented.  Well, 
Mr.  Man  took  the  cover  off  the  coop,  lifted  me  out  and  carried  me  home. 
I  was  greatly  humbled  when  he  at  last  tossed  me  into  the  barnyard  among 
the  other  fowls,  but  later  I  was  still  more  mortified  when  I  discovered  that 
if  I  had  not  held  my  head  up  so  high  in  that  coop  I  would  have  noticed 
the  opening  through  which  I  had  entered,  and  used  it  for  my  exit. 

I  was  so  much  humbled  that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  my  uncle  and 
my  mother  how  foolish  I  had  always  been,  but  I  could  not  find  them. 
Inquiring  for  them,  I  was  terribly  shocked  to  find  that  I  had  sustained  a 
double  bereavement. 

"  They  have  both  gone  to  the  city,"  bewailed  an  old  hen  turkey,  trying 
to  wipe  her  eye  on  a  clean  picked  corn  cob. 

"  Gone  to  the  city  ?  "  I  cried.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  For  corn's  sake, 
don't  keep  me  in  suspense  !  " 

"  They  're  dead,  my  poor  boy ;  they  're  dead  !  "  she  told  me,  putting 
her  foot  tenderly  on  mine  to  steady  me  under  the  blow.  At  the  awful 
news  I  felt  as  though  every  feather  had  been  torn  from  my  tail,  and 
my  dewlap  went  ghastly  pink. 

Then  she  told  me,  kindly  as  possible,  the  dreadful  details. 

It  seemed  that  Thanksgiving  Day  was  less  than  a  week  distant.  That 
fact  in  itself  seemed  to  her  to  be  self-explanatory  of  the  whole  tragedy. 
Mr.  Man  had  entered  into  some  dread  bargain  with  a  stranger,  by  which, 
in  exchange  for  something  called  money,  he  was  to  deliver  the  bodies  of 
my  relatives,  with  other  members  of  the  colony,  to  this  stranger,  whom 
they  called  a  "  huckster."  The  last  sad  rites  had  been  performed  the 
very  night  before  my  return. 

Life  seemed  very  bare  and  cold  to  me  after  that,  and  only  a  few 
weeks  later  I  lost  my  kindly  old  friend,  the  hen  turkey,  who,  about  a 
week  before  Christmas,  was  abruptly  yanked  off  her  roost  and  called  to 
another  sphere  of  usefulness. 

With  the  hired  boy's  hand  round  her  neck  she  uttered  a  sorrowful 
squawk,  which  still  rings  in  my  ears  :  "I'm  going  to  the  city.  Good-bye, 
my  dearest  Eugenia ;  good-bye,  Falstaff ;  take  care  of  my  little  girl !  " 
(While  my  family  name,  and  the  one  I  always  use  in  legal  matters  is 


l68  TVriCAL  NEWSrAPER  STORIES 

A.  Turkey  Gobbler,  Esq.,  my  family  and  friends  had  always  called  me 
Falstaff  as  a  compliment  to  my  weight,  so  this  last  appeal  touched  me 
all  the  more  forcibly.) 

Next  day  I  found  Eugenia,  broken-hearted  and  lonely,  and  tried  to 
comfort  her  in  every  possible  way.  She  was  a  sweet  little  hen,  with  a 
pleasant  call,  and  a  trim  figure  that  gave  promise  of  rounding  out  to  still 
more  beautiful  proportions  —  a  promise  that  the  long  happy  months  of 
this  last  year  have  brought  to  fulfillment. 

Eugenia,  or  Ginny,  as  she  was  nicknamed  in  the  yard,  had  joined  with 
her  mother  in  trying  to  cheer  me  up  during  my  Thanksgiving  bereave- 
ment, and  had  timidly  offered  her  friendship.  Many  and  many  a  time  I 
have  seen  her  deliberately  pass  over  some  particularly  tempting  grain  of 
com  or  choice  morsel  of  the  scrapings  at  feed  time  in  order  that  I,  beside 
her,  might  have  them  to  eat.  Now,  in  her  sorrow,  I  returned  these  deli- 
cate attentions  and  was  always  at  her  side  to  talk  and  join  in  her  plain- 
tive outbreaks  of  grief.  The  poor  child  suffered  terribly,  and  often  at 
night,  when  we  were  roosting  in  the  tree,  she  would  start  violently  from 
sleep,  with  a  heart-breaking  grating  squawk  that  pained  me  terribly. 

Our  friendship  and  mutual  sorrow  naturally  drew  us  closer  and  closer 
together,  and  it  was  not  long  before  I  realized  that  she  was  the  one  hen 
in  all  the  world  for  me.  To  my  immense  satisfaction  I  discovered  that 
Ginny  returned  my  love  when  I  mentioned  it  to  her.  And  so  we  were 
married. 

They  said  we  were  a  handsome  couple,  and  now  in  the  fullness  of 
our  two  long  years  are  said,  to  be  still  more  striking  in  appearance. 
Eugenia,  still  neat  and  graceful,  despite  her  14  pounds  of  firm  flesh,  and 
with  her  dark  feathers  smoothed  decorously  from  neck  to  tail,  presents 
a  pleasant  picture  of  matronly  beauty  as  she  quietly  and  industriously 
scratches  around  the  yard  with  her  beautiful  head  held  low  and  her 
lustrous  eyes  intent  on  the  ground  in  search  of  grubs. 

Modesty  forbids  me  mentioning  my  own  heroic  figure.  My  enormous, 
powerful  legs,  long,  pendulous  dewlap,  the  bristly  bunch  of  feathers 
ornamenting  my  broad  breast,  or  the  splendid  fan  of  my  18  grayish 
tipped  tail  feathers. 

Thanks  to  my  good  constitution,  a  life  in  the  open  air  and  the  good 
meals  my  thoughtful  Eugenia  had  always  helped  me  to  get,  I  am  now 
one  of  the  biggest  gobblers  in  the  Ohio  valley.  Yesterday  I  tipped  the 
scales  at  28  pounds.   I  did  not  weigh  myself  for  any  vainglorious  motive, 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  169 

but  was  placed  on  the  steelyard  by  the  farmer's  hired  boy,  and  I  heard 
him  tell  Mrs.  Woman,  who  was  feeding  the  devoted  colony  of  us  in  the 
fattening  coop. 

For  that  is  where  I  am  now  —  in  the  fattening  coop  —  and  Thanks- 
giving Day  is  only  a  little  over  a  week  distant. 

"  He  '11  do  better  than  that,  Missus,"  said  the  hired  boy,  "  I  reckon, 
and  I  aim  to  make  him  weigh  better  than  30  pound  when  we  send  him 
to  the  city."  And  Mrs.  Woman  said  :  "  D'  ye  think  so,  Cy  ?  That  will  be 
nice,  but  I  must  say  I  '11  miss  the  big  fellow  when  he  is  gone." 

I  am  the  biggest  gobbler  that  Mr.  Man  has  ever  sent  to  the  city.  That 
is  some  satisfaction.  Another  grain  of  comfort  I  find  in  the  thought  that 
even  then  I  will  not  be  parted  from  my  Eugenia.    She  is  going,  too. 

When  we  overheard  the  rumors  that  the  huckster  had  been  seen  on 
the  premises,  and  when  the  old  gander  blubbered  out  the  news  to  his 
flock  of  wives  that  Thanksgiving  Day  was  coming  and  that  he  had  a 
hunch  that  he  was  due  to  stop  quacking,  Ginny  and  I  talked  it  over 
and  prepared  for  the  worst  and  made  a  pact  to  die  together. 

"  I  simply  won't  live  without  you,  Falstaff,  dear,"  sobbed  my  dear 
girl,  "  and  I  '11  just  make  them  send  me  too." 

True  to  her  word,  my  devoted  Ginny  started  right  in,  eating  as  I  had 
never  dreamed  it  possible  that  a  hen  could  eat,  and  she  seemed  to  take 
on  weight  before  my  astounded  eyes.  Two  days  after  I  had  been  put 
in  the  fattening  coop  they  brought  her  in,  too,  as  Mr.  Man  declared 
that  "  that  little  hen  turkey  looks  to  me  to  be  amazin'  heavy  and  she  's 
simply  eatin'  her  head  off  anyhow ;  so  throw  her  in  with  the  others." 

So  here  in  the  fattening  coop,  with  my  faithful  Eugenia  at  my  side,  I 
am  writing  these  words.    I  am  calm  at  the  prospect  —  almost  happy. 

Packed  together  for  our  trip  to  the  city  we  will  have  kept  our  pact. 
I  will  write  no  more.  I  have  told  my  little  story ;  I  have  lived  my  life. 
Trusting  that  we  will  contribute  something  to  the  pleasures  of  your  life, 
Eugenia  and  I  salute  you. 

Expecting  soon  to  be  in  your  midst,  I  herewith  subscribe  myself, 

Very  truly  yours, 

A.  TURKEY  GOBBLER,  Esq. 
—  Dictated  to  Charles  H.  Gillespie  for  the  Pittsburgh  Press 


I70  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

DAY  OF  THANKS,  OLD  STYLE 

Aunt  Mahaly,  Bill  and  I  are  fairly  seething  and  bubbling  with  joyous 
excitement.  Thanksgiving  is  at  the  gate,  the  "  big  pot  and  the  little  one  " 
are  on  the  range,  and  the  relatives,  old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  are  on 
their  way  to  the  old  homestead  and  to  me.  Aunt  Mahaly  is  out  on  the 
porch  peeling  pumpkins  and  singing  "Old  Time  Religion"  in  a  voice 
which,  despite  her  age,  still  holds  the  strength  and  wildness  and  sweetness 
that  would  seem  to  be  the  peculiar  inheritance  of  the  burden  bearers  of 
the  world.  Bill  is  grinding  sausage,  and  joining  in  with  a  tenor  that 
would  make  his  fortune  on  the  stage : 

Hit  were  good  fer  Paul  en  Silas, 
Hit  were  good  fer  Paul  en  Silas, 
Hit  were  good  fer  Paul  en  Silas, 
Hit's  the  ole  time  religion, 
En  hit 's  good  enough  for  me. 

The  warm  November  sun  must  have  roused  spring  memories  in  the 
mocking  birds,  for  they  are  singing  in  the  magnolias.  The  sweet,  mingled 
sounds  are  yet  such  customary  ones  that  I  scarcely  hear  them,  for  my 
mind  is  intent  on  the  cakes  reposing  in  frosted,  spicy  splendor  on  the 
pantry  shelves.  There  are  six  black  fruit  cakes,  a  white  one,  two  pound 
cakes,  three  sponge  cakes,  one  spice  cake  and  one  each  of  chocolate, 
orange,  coconut  and  caramel.  Small  Mary  celebrates  her  birthday  on 
Thanksgiving,  so  her  special  cake,  with  pink  icing  and  five  imposing  pink 
candles,  occupies  the  place  of  honor.  Then  there  are  the  tin  boxes  of 
caraway-seed  cookies  and  "  horsey  cakes "  for  the  children  to  nibble 
between  meals.  The  candied  grapefruit  is  good  as  can  be — so  are 
the  figs,  stuffed  with  marshmallows  and  nuts,  with  which  the  girls  will 
ruin  their  digestions  at  bedtime. 

finding  room  for  so  many  people  to  sleep  —  and  there  will  be  many 
—  is  more  trouble  than  feeding  them.  Cots  are  kept  up  in  the  attic  for 
the  boys,  the  children  have  cots  placed  for  them  in  their  mother's  room 
and  the  girls  have  cots  put  in  my  room,  which  is  a  very  large  one.  I 
don't  know  who  began  it,  for  I  don't  get  to  sleep  a  wink  with  that  giggling 
crowd,  but  it 's  just  one  of  the  customs  which  some  way  we  never  seem 
to  change.  And  after  all  I  should  miss  the  noise  and  chatter  and  nightly 
confidences  about  everything  under  the  sun.  Each  girl  has  her  special 
quilt,  without  which  she  refuses  to  sleep.    Jane's  choice  is  a  red  and  green 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  171 

"  temperance  tree  "  —  why  that  name  I  don't  know,  as  it 's  the  most 
intemperate  thing  as  to  color  I  ever  saw.  Catherine's  favorite  is  a  pink 
and  blue  "  Philadelphia  pavement,"  while  Betty  always  writes  for  the 
"  Lone  Star  of  Texas."  At  bedtime,  after  a  raid  on  the  pantry  for  coco- 
nut cake  and  stuffed  figs,  they  wrap  up  in  their  quilts  and  sit  on  my  bed 
and  tell  me  all  that  has  happened  since  they  were  last  with  me. 

I  am  sorry  I  do  not  know  the  strange  boys  Jack  is  bringing  with 
him  from  college,  as  I  like  each  guest  in  the  house  to  feel  that  some 
special  thing  has  been  planned  for  his  own  personal  Thanksgiving  in 
addition  to  the  general  jollification.  But  there  is  plenty  to  eat,  lots  of 
young  folks  to  dance  and  ride  with,  not  to  mention  Bill  to  take  them 
possum  hunting,  so  time  should  pass  pleasantly  enough  for  them.  I  am 
counting  mightily  on  Bill  and  the  possums,  for  Dorothy  Brandon  is 
coming  with  Jane,  and,  with  that  girl  in  the  home,  I  am  afraid  Jack 
will  pay  precious  little  attention  to  his  friends.  Now  that  I  think  of  it, 
however,  the  expression  that  flitted  across  Jane's  face  when  I  told  her 
who  was  coming  with  Jack  may  not  make  Bill  and  the  possums  so 
necessary  after  all.  Altogether,  it  promises  to  be  a  very  interesting 
Thanksgiving  to  me,  and  I  trust  that  all  who  are  gathered  together 
under  the  old  roof  tree  may  find  there  happiness  and  peace. 

The  salted  almonds  and  peanuts  are  just  out  of  the  oven,  and  the  jars 
of  brandied  peaches,  watermelons,  sweet  pickles,  and  stuffed  peppers 
have  been  brought  up  from  the  cellar  to  the  pantry  for  convenience.  For 
the  twentieth  time,  at  least,  I  admire  my  handiwork  with  an  ever-increasing 
delight  that  only  a  housekeeper  can  comprehend. 

Through  the  open  door  comes  Aunt  Mahaly's  song,  with  its  mocking- 
bird accompaniment : 

Hit  were  good  fer  John  de  Baptiss, 
Hit  were  good  fer  John  de  Baptiss, 
Hit  were  good  fer  John  de  Baptiss, 
Hit 's  de  ole  time  rehgion, 
En  hit's  good  enough  for  me. 

But  the  concord  of  sweet  sounds  is  brought  to  an  abrupt  close  by 
stamping  of  horses  and  rattling  of  wagon  wheels.  Cakes,  sausage  and 
pumpkins  are  forgotten  as  we  all  rush  out  into  the  yard  to  welcome  the 
additional  Thanksgiving  supplies  from  "  Goshen,"  the  mountain  farm. 
The  white  canvas-covered  wagons  are  filled  with  a  bleating,  cackling, 
quacking,  squawking  conglomeration,  which  Bill  and  the  driver  lift  out, 


172  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

while  Aunt  Mahaly  and  I  count  and  examine.  Tlie  list  is  complete : 
one  dozen  turkeys,  two  crates  of  frying-size  chickens,  six  geese,  one 
dozen  ducks  and  a  lamb  that  looks  at  me  so  piteously  that  I  instantly 
resolve  to  hide  him  down  in  the  peach  orchard  till  the  last  hungry 
guest  departs.  He  will  probably  return  such  mistaken  kindness  by 
growing  up  into  a  foolish  old  sheep  and  lifelong  nuisance  —  pet  lambs 
always  do.  The  country  hams,  sides  of  bacon,  barrels  of  apples,  potatoes, 
cabbage  and  buckwheat  flour  were  hauled  down  last  week. 

Then,  of  course,  there  is  the  home  garden,  with  carrots,  turnips,  salsify, 
salad,  onions,  kale,  parsley,  celery  and  in  the  cold  frames  head  lettuce 
and  radishes,  not  to  mention  the  cellar  closets  with  their  canned  fruits 
and  vegetables,  jellies,  preserves  and  pickles. —  New  York  Evening  Post 


RIIS  AND  HIS  CAROLS  ARE  NOT  FORGOTTEN 

"  Don't  forget  the  Christmas  carols.  I  will  be  there,"  is  what  Jacob  A. 
Riis  wrote  to  the  people  of  Richmond  Hill,  when  he  was  at  his  summer 
home  a  little  while  before  he  died.  Wherever  he  was,  he  always  came 
home  in  time  for  the  Christmas  carols,  sung  underneath  the  windows 
of  shut-ins  on  Christmas  eve. 

They  have  not  forgotten.  His  old  friends  from  across  the  street ; 
neighbors  on  the  other  side  of  the  garden ;  the  family  opposite  the  Riis 
bird  houses,  and  others  —  fifty  of  them  —  are  singing  over  again  the 
familiar  songs  of  the  Christmas  waits ;  are  bringing  out  their  red  capes ; 
are  dusting  the  Christmas  lanterns  and  candles. 

On  Christmas  F-ve  at  half-past  seven  o'clock,  they  will  meet  in  the  old 
Riis  home  on  Beech  street,  just  as  they  have  done  under  his  direction 
for  many  years.  In  every  window  of  the  old-fashioned  white  house  there 
will  be  two  candles  burning,  in  accordance  with  the  old  Danish  custom. 
From  the  single-lighted  window  in  the  attic  peak  to  the  rows  of  twinkling 
windows  along  the  broad  porch,  the  house  will  glow,  as  the  Christmas 
waits  with  their  red  capes  and  lanterns  start  out,  singing  as  they  go, 
to  carol  underneath  windows  of  shut-ins. 

It  is  dark  o' nights  out  in  the  by-streets  of  Richmond  Hill,  and  the 
waits  will  need  their  lanterns  to  guide  them  to  the  windows  of  the  shut-ins, 
because  there  are  changes  in  the  list  Jacob  Riis  made  out  last  year ;  some 
names  have  been  crossed  off  since  last  Christmas,  and  others  added. 
But,  if  Richmond  Hill  people  have  not  forgotten  the  notice  put  up  in 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  173 

the  post  office  in  previous  years  by  Jacob  Riis,  there  will  be  extra  light 
on  Christmas  Eve.    It  said : 

"  The  Christmas  Society  of  Richmond  Hill  takes  the  season's  lib- 
erty of  asking  the  householders  north  of  the  railroad  track,  where 
the  Christmas  waits  will  go  their  rounds,  to  light  up  their  houses  and 
roll  up  their  shades  on  Christmas  Eve.  All  who  wish  to  join  the  waits 
in  singing  carols  in  the  streets  from  9  to  10  p.m.  will  please  give  in 
their  names.  .  .  ." 

The  first  stop  of  the  Christmas  waits  will  be  at  a  neighbor's  home, 
whose  house  has  been  lighted  each  year  from  top  to  bottom,  lest  the 
waits  lose  their  way.  Last  year  they  had  barely  assembled  underneath 
the  window  and  begun  to  sing : 

God  rest  you,  merry  gentlemen  ! 
Let  nothing  you  dismay  ! 

when  a  snowy-haired  grandmother  was  wheeled  up  close  to  the  window, 
surrounded  by  children  and  grown-ups  —  the  whole  filling  the  window- 
picture. 

Then  the  lantern  light  will  lead  the  way  to  the  homes  of  paralytics, 
to  a  ninety-year-old  woman, —  waiting, —  to  a  blind  man's  house;  to  a 
young  man's  window  who  was  one  of  the  waits  last  year ;  to  an  old 
friend  of  Riis ;  to  others. 

Underneath  the  window  of  the  old  friend  of  Jacob  Riis,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  garden,  the  waits  will  swing  the  old  Riis  lantern  and  sing 
his  favorite  carol,  which  he  liked  to  believe  was  a  Danish  carol,  and  to 
which  he  always  sang  the  translation  ffom  Danish  words  : 

Silent  night!    Holy  night! 
All  is  calm  ;  all  is  bright. 

The  waits  will  sing  a  French  Christmas  carol  to  an  old  French  shut-in, 
and  a  German  shut-in  will  hear  strains  of  an  old  German  Christmas  Eve 
song  underneath  his  window. 

Picking  their  way  by  the  light  of  the  lanterns,  caroling  now  faintly, 
now  with  a  burst  of  tone,  the  red  capes  —  some  large,  which  will  cover 
fathers  and  big  brothers ;  some  smaller,  which  belong  to  mothers ;  some 
very  small,  enveloping  tiny  waits  —  will  come  back  to  the  little  white 
house  on  Beach  street. 

That  they  did  not  forget,  the  neighbors  will  know ;  the  gray  sparrows 
in  the  Riis  bird  houses  will  know ;  the  Danish  poplars  in  the  garden  will 


174  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

know,  when  they  sing  the  last  carol  there  in  the  candlelight  underneath 
the  Riis  windows : 

The  first  Noel,  the  angel  did  say, 

Was  to  certain  poor  shepherds  in  fields  as  they  lay; 

In  fields  where  they  lay  keeping  their  sheep, 

On  a  cold  winter's  night  that  was  so  deep. 

Noel,  Noel,  Noel,  Noel ! 

Born  is  the  King  of  Israel !  —  Neiv   York  Evefiing  Post 

Editor's  Note.  Red-letter  days  of  the  year  always  suggest  special  stories 
for  the  newspaper.  An  interesting  departure  from  the  usual  Thanksgiving  story 
is  this  autobiography  of  a  turkey.  It  is  replete  with  sly  jokes  and  shows  evi- 
dence of  the  handiwork  of  a  man  thoroughly  conversant  with  the  familiar  life 
of  the  farm.  The  narrative  form  of  the  story  makes  it  particularly  good  read- 
ing for  the  children,  also  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Man,  Mrs.  Woman,  and 
the  Fox  add  a  zest  of  adventure  to  the  tale.  The  story  is  designed  for  enter- 
tainment and  might  have  been  written  for  a  little  girPs  amusement.  It  is  full 
of  appetite-teasing  words  and  possesses  the  flavor  of  a  real  Thanksgiving 
"  back  home." 

"  A  Day  of  Thanks,  Old  Style,"  which  follows,  is  the  picture  of  an  old- 
fashioned  Southern  homestead.  Here  is  the  song  of  the  mocking  bird  and  the 
grateful  aroma  of  fruit  cakes  and  cookies  and  Thanksgiving  delicacies.  Here, 
too,  is  the  intimate  life  of  a  big  house,  a  family  reunion,  extra  cots,  a  college 
pal  brought  home  for  the  festivities.  The  entire  story  is  charged  with  happi- 
ness and  good  cheer  and  fits  well  into  the  spirit  of  Thanksgiving. 

The  story  of  Jacob  Riis  and  the  singing  of  Christmas  carols  is  built  around 
the  well-beloved  personality  of  this  nationalized  American.  The  description  of 
the  neighbors  on  their  way  to  sing  carols  to  shut-ins  on  Christmas  Eve,  just 
as  they  were  wont  to  do  under  his  direction  according  to  Danish  custom,  are 
pictured  with  sympathetic  understanding.  The  celebration  itself  is  particularly 
readable  at  the  Christmas  season,  while  the  attention  given  Mr.  Riis  adds  an 
additional  appeal  to  the  narrative. 


VASHON   ISLAND   PREPARING   FOR  STRAWBERRY  HARVEST 

Great  is  the  tension  on  lovely,  fertile,  sea-encircled  Vashon  Island  just 
now.  The  annual  strawberry  harvest  is  about  to  begin.  The  first  berries 
will  be  picked,  if  all  goes  well,  the  first  of  next  v^^eek.  Within  a  vi^eek 
thereafter,  they  will  be  going  out  in  a  more  or  less  steady  stream.  By 
the  first  of  June  refrigerator  cars  will  be  making  daily  trips  on  barges 
across  the  Sound. 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  175 

Prospects  are  for  a  good  crop  of  strawberries ;  not  extraordinary, 
but  good.  Already,  though  the  vines  are  still  starry  with  white  blossoms, 
the  green  berries  are  as  large  as  the  end  of  a  man's  thumb.  Farmers 
greet  each  other  on  the  roads  with  anxious  comments  on  the  weather. 

"  Awful  lot  o'  cool  days  this  spring,"  says  one,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Pretty  dry  just  now,"  sighs  another  pessimist. 

"  'F  it  don't  rain  't  wrong  time,  we  '11  be  lucky,"  croaks  a  third. 

And  all  the  time  the  berries  are  swelling  and  sweetening  under  their 
broad  leaves,  in  magnificent  disregard  of  all  the  worrying  that  all  the 
farmers  on  Vashon  can  do. 

Signs  of  the  times  are  visible  all  over  the  island.  Keen-eyed  berry 
buyers  from  the  city  "  drop  over  to  look  around  "  with  elaborate  casual- 
ness,  equaled  only  by  that  of  the  equally  keen-eyed  berry  raisers.  Crates 
and  boxes  are  arriving  by  the  thousands. 

Soon  the  pickers  will  appear,  hundreds  of  them,  a  motley  crowd  of 
nomads.  These  pickers  are  a  population  in  themselves.  There  are 
probably  1500  pickers  and  laborers  on  the  island  every  summer.  There 
are  some  Japanese  among  them,  and  an  increasing  number  of  Indians. 
Neah  Bay  probably  will  send  300  or  400  Indians  this  summer,  traveling, 
like  aristocrats,  in  their  own  fishy  smelling  power  boats. 

The  comments  of  some  of  the  growers  on  the  relative  desirability  of 
whites  and  Indians  as  pickers  are  thought-compelling.  "  You  can't 
depend  on  the  white  pickers,"  they  say.  "  They  seem  to  look  at  it  as  a 
sort  of  picnic,  to  be  dropped  the  minute  it  gets  to  be  hard  work.  They 
earn  a  few  dollars,  and  away  they  go.  But  the  Indians  stay  right  with 
it ;  they  will  pick,  wet  or  dry,  and  they  pick  clean." 

The  acreage  in  strawberries  this  year  is  not  more  than  two  thirds  of 
what  it  has  been,  perhaps  less  than  that.  Last  year  it  rained  just  at  the 
wrong  time,  and  thousands  of  boxes  of  berries  were  ruined  for  shipment. 
Year  before  last  "  the  commission  men  got  it  all." 

The  Japanese,  ordinarily  credited  with  getting  the  best  of  their  bar- 
gains, are  said  to  have  been  the  hardest  hit  by  the  two  lean  years  in  the 
strawberry  business ;  and  partly  as  a  result  of  this  and  partly  for  other 
reasons,  there  has  been  a  remarkable  Japanese  exodus.  There  were 
2000  or  3000  Japanese  on  the  island  a  couple  of  years  ago.  There  are 
said  to  be  twenty-three  families  now.  Most  of  the  clearing  on  the  island 
has  been  done  by  the  Japanese,  much  of  it  under  the  system  by  which  a 
Japanese  agreed  to  clear  a  tract  in  return  for  a  five-year  lease  of  it.   Some 


1/6  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

of  them  put  hundreds  or  even  thousands  of  dollars  into  the  clearing. 
Then  they  planted  strawberries, —  nothing  but  strawberries, —  the  big, 
brilliant  Magoons  that  filled  up  the  boxes  quickly,  though  they  are  not 
the  best  shippers.    Clever  people,  these  Japanese. 

Then  it  rained.  The  wet,  ripe  berries  softened  into  mush.  They  could 
not  be  shipped  even  to  local  markets.  The  Japanese  were  ruined.  Other 
farmers  besides  the  Japanese  lost  their  berries,  but  either  they  had  some 
other  crop  to  fall  back  on  or  they  were  anchored  by  their  ownership  of 
the  land.  The  Japanese  were  only  leasing.  Many  of  the  leases  expired 
about  that  time  and  were  not  renewed.  Other  leases,  not  yet  expired, 
were  simply  thrown  up.  The  Japanese  are  gone,  and  the  weeds  are 
growing  in  their  abandoned  strawbern^  patches. 

During  the  six  weeks'  berry  season,  those  who  arc  directly  interested 
in  it  do  not  allow  time  for  eating  or  sleeping  to  enter  into  their  calcula- 
tions. Many  of  the  berries  will  be  picked  at  night,  and  loaded,  cool  with 
the  evening  breeze,  into  the  great  refrigerator  cars,  to  begin  their  journey 
in  the  best  possible  condition.  Sleepy  farmers  and  sleepy  horses  are  on 
the  road  by  4  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  if  they  get  to  bed  by  1 1  or  1 2 
they  do  well.  There  is  great  rivalry  for  the  honor  of  shipping  the  first 
crate  of  berries.  The  days  are  past  when  the  first  crate  brought  $25 
to  $30.  It  will  bring  $5  or  $6  now,  but  the  honor  is  the  same.  The 
two  bad  strawberry  years  have  had  other  effects  besides  the  elimination  of 
the  Japanese.  They  turned  the  attention  of  the  farmers  to  other  things. 
The  soil  of  Vashon,  though  marvelously  adapted  to  strawberries,  is  suited 
also  to  other  fruits,  both  large  and  small.  There  will  be  many  carloads 
of  cherries,  pears  and  apples  this  year.  Stock-raising  is  on  the  increase. 
Chicken-raising  always  has  been  a  great  industry  on  Vashon,  but  stock- 
raising  on  any  larger  scale  seems  somewhat  incongruous  where  farms  are 
small  and  land  prices  high.  Nevertheless,  blooded  cows  and  pigs  are 
said  to  be  making  money  for  their  owners  on  land  worth  anywhere  from 
$150  to  $500  an  acre,  where  the  farmer  buys  practically  all  his  feed. 

This  story  is  going  to  be  hard  for  a  good  many  people  to  believe,  — 
but  the  farmers  have  an  automobile  club,  and  their  pretty  homes  are 
equipped  with  telephones  and  other  conveniences, —  so  there  must  be 
something  in  it.  Vashon  growers,  like  others,  have  faced  the  problem 
of  selling  their  produce,  and  there  has  been  the  usual  amount  of  friction 
between  them  and  the  commission  men  in  the  cities.  A  number  of  the 
growers  are  trying  out  a  co-operative  plan  this  year,  which  has  some  new 


IN  THE  WAKE  OF  THE  NEWS  177 

features.  The  Vashon-Maury  Producers'  Union,  as  it  calls  itself,  is  buy- 
ing automobile  trucks  to  collect  produce  of  all  kinds  from  the  farms  of 
its  members,  and  is  planning  a  system  of  telephone  orders  and  deliveries 
direct  to  consumers  in  Seattle.  It  has  a  contract  with  eastern  buyers 
for  all  its  best  strawberries  and  has  made  arrangements  to  have  the  rest 
taken  care  of  in  a  cannery  on  the  island.  George  E.  St.  John  is  president 
of  the  undertaking ;  A.  S.  Randall,  secretary ;  J.  B.  dinger,  manager ; 
and  J.  W.  Brown,  organizer.  If  it  is  a  success,  it  will  be  a  thorough  and 
complete  elimination  of  the  middleman.  Every  farmer  on  the  island  has 
his  eyes  on  it. 

There  is  another  distinctive  early-summer  feature  of  Vashon  Island, 
besides  its  strawberry  crop.  Just  about  this  time  every  year  the  popula- 
tion suddenly  leaps  from  5000  to  12,000.  The  large  number  of  people 
who  own  anything  from  a  tiny  shack  on  the  beach  to  a  many-acred  farm, 
while  having  businesses  in  the  city  and  living  there  a  part  of  the  year, 
is  a  peculiar  element  in  the  island's  economy.  Its  dreamy  beauty  calls 
to  the  tired  city-dwellers,  and  they  come  literally  by  thousands  every 
spring,  peopling  the  beaches  and  the  summer  homes  for  a  time  and 
ebbing  away  again  in  the  fall. 

But  flower  and  fruit  and  harvest  heed  no  human  comings  and  goings. 
Arrogantly,  tyrannically,  they  progress  according  to  the  laws  of  the 
seasons  and  the   whims  of  the   weather. 

So  the  Vashon  strawberry  growers  are  waiting  and  holding  their 
breaths,  with  one  eye  on  the  skies  and  the  other  on  the  market. — 
Mabel  Abbott  in  Seattle  Smi 

Editor's  Note.  This  story  of  the  annual  strawberry  harvest  on  Vashon 
Island  affords  glimpses  of  vines,  blossoms,  and  ripening  berries,  with  a  promise 
of  busier  days  to  come,  when  the  Indian  pickers  begin  to  pack  the  red  fruit  into 
boxes  and  crates  for  the  great  Eastern  markets.  The  organization  of  Vashon 
growers  is  referred  to,  and  a  wide  assortment  of  facts  relating  to  strawberry 
culture  is  introduced,  along  with  a  summary  of  the  lean  years.  The  conversa- 
tion and  rain  philosophy  of  the  growers  are  not  forgotten.  The  story  is  perhaps 
more  local  than  general  in  its  appeal,  but  was  particularly  seasonable  when 
printed.  It  did  not  wait  until  the  "  bloom  was  off  the  rye."  The  closing 
sentence  is  apt. 


VII 

INTERVIEWS 

No  set  rules  can  be  laid  down  for  the  making  of  the  interview. 
It  is  a  type  of  news  story  that  depends  largely  upon  the  alertness 
and  personality  of  the  interviewer  and  upon  the  response  of  the 
man  interviewed,  A  simple  transcribing  of  questions  and  answers 
does  not  insure  interesting  reading.  Many  news  reports  are  simply 
the  result  of  queries  and  replies.  The  interview,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  a  more  subtle,  more  artistic  piece  of  writing.  It  represents  a 
personal  point  of  view,  sufficiently  fresh  and  novel  to  arrest  public 
attention.  In  the  interview  really  worth  while,  this  point  of  view 
has  been  sought  and  seized  by  the  reporter  before  the  man  who 
pronounced  it  is  aware  that  he  has  made  newspaper  "  copy." 
Moreover,  the  interview  brings  a  degree  of  reliability  to  the  ordi- 
nary news  reports  in  that  it  places  the  responsibility  for  an  utter- 
ance squarely  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  man  himself,  thus 
forestalling  inaccurate  and  garbled  reporting.  Interest  is  always 
enhanced  by  the  printing  of  opinions  held  by  a  prominent  man 
known  to  be  the  champion  of  a  great  cause  or  recognized  as  an 
expert  in  a  special  field  of  knowledge. 

Generally  speaking,  the  importance  of  the  interview  is  gauged 
by  the  information  it  contains.  This  body  of  facts,  to  be  considered 
good  newspaper  ""copy,"  must  be  timely  and  significant, —  like 
news  itself,  —  gleaned  from  a  man's  investigation  and  experience. 
If  the  facts  presented  are  only  excerpts  from  an  encyclopedia, 
or  really  but  commonplace  repetitions  of  well-known  truths,  they 
possess  little  value  for  the  newspaper.  They  must  have  an  inti- 
mate relationship  to  present-day  thought  and  life. 

Frequently,  however,  where  such  facts  arc  not  forthcoming,  the 
interest  centers  in  the  personality  of  the  man  himself.  People 
have  a  curiosity  to  know  the  human  side  of  the  great  and  the 
near  great. 

178 


INTERVIEWS  179 

In  fashioning  the  interview  the  newspaper  man  hews  closely  to 
the  line  of  most  absorbing  interest,  whether  that  be  a  personal 
interpretation  or  the  statement  of  a  startling  opinion.  He  does  not 
seek  to  cast  the  story  in  a  chronological  sequence,  or  to  interlard 
it  with  a  long  succession  of  direct  quotations,  some  of  which  are 
irrelevant.  Whatever  the  digressions,  he  never  slackens  his  gait. 
The  interview  must  acquire  movement. 

In  so  far  as  he  is  able  the  skilled  interviewer  reproduces  the 
exact  phraseology,  the  gestures,  the  peculiar  characteristics  that 
enliven  the  speech  and  manner  of  the  interviewed.  These  often 
contribute  to  the  clear  understanding  of  a  man's  philosophy. 
Instead  of  such  familiar  words  of  explanation  as  "  said  "  and 
"  remark,"  the  observant  reporter  uses  "  he  added,  laughingly  "  or 
"  he  declared,  stroking  his  cheek,"  or  any  other  expressive  epithets 
that  cast  a  sidelight  on  the  man's  demeanor  and  temperament.  If 
he  sits  quietly  at  his  desk,  or  strides  across  the  room,  or  pounds 
out  his  opinion  with  clenched  hand,  these  bits  of  byplay  are 
included  in  the  body  of  the  interview.  They  are  necessary  to  a 
full  appreciation  of  the  person  interviewed. 

Variety  is  secured  by  the  insertion  of  generalizing  paragraphs 
for  the  sake  of  compression,  and  by  the  addition  of  telling  bits  of 
description.  The  advice  of  the  writer  of  fiction  is  applicable  here  : 
'"  Bring  on  your  character,  let  him  walk  across  the  stage  and  speak 
a  half  dozen  words  and  we  will  know  him  better  than  if  you  write 
six  thousand  words  about  him."  The  interview  that  includes  such 
features  is  far  more  than  an  exercise  in  stenography.  It  is  a  men- 
tal picture,  a  full-length  portrait,  a  personal  interpretation. 


i8o  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

FREDERICK  WILLIAM  AT  FRONT  EXPLAINS  HIS  VIEWS 
ON  GREAT  WORLD  CONFLICT 

Headquarters  of  Army  of  the  Crown  Prince  in  France, 
Nov.  20. — (By  courier  via  Namur,  Aix  La  Chapelle  and  the  Hague  to 
London  and  cable  to  New  York.)  —  "  Undoubtedly  this  is  the  most  stu- 
pid, senseless  and  unnecessary  war  of  modern  times.  It  is  a  war  not 
wanted  by  Germany,  I  can  assure  you,  but  it  was  forced  on  us,  and  the 
fact  that  we  were  so  effectually  prepared  to  defend  ourselves  is  now  being 
used  as  an  argument  to  convince  the  world  that  we  desired  conflict." 

In  the  above  words  Frederick  Wilhelm,  crown  prince  of  Germany  and 
heir  to  the  throne  of  the  kaiser,  opened  the  first  interview  he  has  ever 
given  to  a  foreign  newspaper  man.  With  these  words  he  prefaced  the 
first  direct  statement  made  to  the  press  by  any  member  of  the  German 
royal  family  since  the  outbreak  of  the  war. 

I  arrived  at  the  headquarters  of  the  Fifth  German  army  in  an  auto 
shortly  before  midnight.  At  daybreak  I  received  a  call  from  Maj.  Elder 
Von  Der  Planitz,  personal  aide-de-camp  to  the  crown  prince,  who  stated 
that  his  imperial  highness  wanted  to  welcome  me,  but  that  he  was  leaving 
for  the  firing  line  and  would  see  me  a  little  later  in  the  day. 

When,  some  time  later,  the  crown  prince  returned,  I  was  presented. 
He  greeted  me  cordially  and  without  any  of  the  stiffness  or  cool  reserve 
that  might  have  been  expected. 

"  I  am  very  pleased  to  see  you  here,"  he  said,  "  and  I  hope  that  you 
will  find  plenty  to  interest  you.  I  want  you  to  feel  at  liberty  to  go 
wherever  you  like." 

"  I  hope  your  imperial  highness  will  pardon  my  Americanized  Ger- 
man," I  said,  in  stating  to  him  some  points  in  which  I  thought  American 
readers  would  be  chiefly  interested. 

"  Then  let  us  talk  English  if  you  feel  that  we  can  thus  better  express 
ourselves,"  was  his  quick  reply.  Acting  on  this  suggestion,  the  crown 
prince  of  Germany  proceeded  to  give  this  interview  in  English. 

"  I  am  a  soldier  and  therefore  cannot  discuss  politics,"  said  the  crown 
prince,  "  but  it  seems  to  me  that  this  whole  business,  all  of  this  action 
that  you  see  around  here,  is  senseless,  unnecessary  and  uncalled  for. 

"  But  Germany  was  left  no  choice  in  the  matter.  From  the  lowest  to 
the  highest  we  all  know  that  we  are  fisfhting  for  our  existence.    I  know 


INTERVIEWS  l8l 

that  soldiers  of  the  other  nations  probably  say  and  a  great  many  of  them 
probably  think  the  same  thing.  This  does  not  alter  the  fact,  however, 
that  we  are  actually  fighting  for  our  national  life. 

"  Since  we  knew  that  the  present  war  was  to  be  forced  on  us,  it 
became  our  highest  duty  to  anticipate  the  struggle  by  every  necessary 
and  possible  preparation  for  the  defense  of  the  fatherland  against  the 
iron  ring  which  our  enemies  have  for  years  been  carefully  and  steadily 
welding  about  us. 

"  The  fact  that  we  foresaw  and  so  far  as  possible  forestalled  the  at- 
tempt to  crush  us  within  this  ring,  and  the  fact  that  we  were  prepared 
to  defend  ourselves,  are  now  being  used  as  an  argument  in  an  attempt 
to  convince  the  world  that  we  not  only  wanted  this  conflict,  but  that 
we  are  responsible  for  it. 

"  No  power  on  earth  will  ever  be  able  to  convince  our  people  that  this 
war  was  not  engineered  solely  and  wholly  with  a  view  to  crushing  the 
German  people,  their  government,  their  institutions  and  all  that  they  hold 
dear.  As  a  result  you  will  find  the  German  people  are  one  grand  unit, 
imbued  with  a  magnificent  spirit  of  self-sacrifice." 

The  scene  of  our  conversation  was  the  drawing  room  of  a  small  French 
villa,  located  a  few  miles  directly  back  of  the  German  fighting  line,  and 
used  by  the  crown  prince  as  a  headquarters  for  himself  and  staff. 

The  crown  prince  entered  accompanied  by  Maj.  Von  Der  Planitz,  who, 
after  presenting  me,  withdrew.  The  young  commander  of  the  German 
forces  was  dressed  simply,  in  the  gray-green  khaki  of  his  troops,  in  a  uni- 
form devoid  of  any  decorations  save  a  very  small  insignia  of  his  rank  as 
lieutenant  general  and  his  recently  acquired  black  and  white  ribbon  of 
the  order  of  the  Iron  Cross.  He  carried  no  sword,  but  toyed  with  a 
short  swagger  stick,  similar  to  those  carried  by  English  cavalry  officers. 

Our  conversation  had  been  in  progress  but  a  short  time  when  it  be- 
came clear  to  me  that  the  crown  prince,  like  99  per  cent  of  the  Germans 
I  have  met  on  the  firing  line  and  off  of  it,  holds  England  responsible  for 
the  present  war. 

The  thing  that  impressed  me  most,  however,  was  the  fact  that  despite 
the  intensity  of  his  convictions,  he  displayed  none  of  the  intense  hatred 
or  the  bitterness  toward  the  English  which  I  have  seen  manifested  con- 
stantly among  people  of  all  walks  of  life  in  Germany  since  the  outbreak 
of  the  war.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  a  note  of  regret  and  almost  one 
of  sadness,  as  he  discussed  this  phase  of  the  great  issue. 


1 82  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

I  quickly  gained  the  impression  tliat  the  crown  prince  is  by  no  means 
the  man  he  has  been  pictured  in  England  and  America.  There  is  nothing 
of  the  fire-eater  or  uncompromising  warrior  about  him.  He  gave  no 
evidence  of  gaining  pleasure  from  his  military  experience  or  of  delight- 
ing in  a  conflict. 

It  was  obvious  that  the  carnage  he  has  already  witnessed  has  made  a 
deep  imprint  on  his  naturally  impressionistic  mind,  and  he  referred  fre- 
quently to  the  losses,  to  the  suffering,  not  only  of  his  own,  but  of  the 
enemy's  forces.  He  was  exceedingly  generous  at  all  times  in  his  praise 
of  the  enemy  as  he  had  come  in  contact  with  them. 

If  he  was  ever  possessed  of  a  reckless,  dare-devil,  care-free  personality, 
the  last  traces  of  it  have  apparently  been  removed  by  his  work  of  the 
past  few  months. 

Early  in  the  conversation  his  imperial  highness  assumed  the  role  of 
the  interviewer  and  made  evident  his  deep  interest  in  the  sentiment  of 
America  and  Americans  and  his  lack  of  understanding  of  the  general 
attitude  of  our  country  toward  Germany's  position.  Like  a  great  major- 
ity of  all  Germans,  he  is  unable  exacriy  to  understand  why  there  is  not 
more  sympathy  in  the  United  States  for  Germany. 

"  There  is  no  use  or  no  purpose  to  be  served  by  our  closing  our  eyes," 
he  said,  "  to  the  fact  that  a  very  large  part  of  the  world  is  against  us. 
But  it  surprises  me  that  America,  to  which  we  are  bound  by  ties  of 
friendship  and  blood  as  to  no  other  neutral  country  —  America,  where 
millions  of  our  people  have  gone  and  carried  the  German  tongue  and 
German  ideas  of  liberty  and  freedom  —  should  be  so  totally  unable  to 
put  themselves  in  our  place. 

"  I  would  not  be  frank  unless  I  admitted  that  it  has  been  a  surprise 
to  me  that  Americans  have  not  seen  more  clearly  up  to  this  time  the 
position  of  Germany,  entirely  surrounded  by  jealous  enemies,  fighting 
for  her  existence  ;  that  they  have  not  had  a  better  understanding,  which 
would  necessarily  mean  a  higher  appreciation  of  the  unexampled  sacri- 
fices and  heroism  of  our  people,  making  this  gigantic  struggle  with  no 
other  objective  than  the  saving  of  the  fatherland." 

He  attributed  the  attitude  of  America  almost  wholly  to  England's  con- 
trol of  the  world's  channels  of  communication.  He  frankly  admitted  that 
in  the  past  Germany  has  failed  to  appreciate  the  important  role  played 
by  the  press  in  world  politics  and  in  international  affairs.  He  made  it 
clear  that  Germany  has  learned  a  lesson  in  this  respect  and  learned  it  at 


INTERVIEWS  183 

the  price  of  being  branded  in  the  eyes  of  the  neutral  nations  as  a  military 
menace  to  the  world's  peace. 

"  I  have  faith  in  the  sense  of  justice  of  the  American  people,"  said 
his  highness,  "  once  we  can  get  to  them  the  actual  facts  and  the  actual 
truths  back  of  this  conflict. 

"  I  know  that  up  to  this  time  it  has  been  impossible  for  them  to 
thoroughly  understand  our  situation,  but  I  believe  that  when  the  truth 
is  known  to  them,  the  fair-mindedness  and  the  love  of  fair  play  which 
has  always  characterized  the  acts  of  your  countrymen  will  result  in  a 
revulsion  of  sentiment  in  our  favor. 

"  I  had  many  friends  in  America.  I  believe  I  still  have  some  there. 
I  also  have  many  friends  in  England  —  or  rather,  had,"  said  the  prince, 
with  a  rather  rueful  smile  and  a  shake  of  his  head.  Then  turning  abruptly 
and  looking  me  squarely  in  the  eye,  he  said : 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  exactly  what  is  said  about  me  in  America." 

I  hesitated  a  moment,  trying  to  figure  just  how  much  frankness  was 
compatible  with  discretion  in  discussing  personalities  with  the  crown 
prince  of  the  German  empire.  Apparently  reading  my  thoughts,  his 
highness  laughed  good-naturedly  and  prompted  : 

"  I  like  frankness  and  can  stand  the  truth.  Go  ahead.  I  really  want 
to  know." 

"  Well,"  I  replied,  "  the  fact  is  that  your  imperial  highness  has  been 
very  generally  represented,  or  misrepresented,  as  one  of  the  kriegshetzer, 
a  war  aviator,  leader  of  the  war  party  and  exponent  extraordinary  of 
militarism." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  crown  prince,  nodding  his  head  in  assent 
and  giving  no  evidence  of  surprise.  "And  the  English  press  says  all  that 
and  much  more.  The  English  papers  have  stated  I  am  a  thief,  and  that 
I  have  personally  robbed  and  pillaged  these  French  houses  in  which  we 
have  been  forced  to  make  our  headquarters. 

"  Really,  —  and  I  want  you  to  tell  me  frankly,  —  is  it  possible  that  in- 
telligent people  in  America  or  even  in  England  can  honestly  believe  such 
things  of  me  ?  Can  it  be  possible  that  they  believe  me  capable  of  steal- 
ing pictures  or  art  treasures,  or  permitting  the  looting  of  French  homes  ?" 

I  reminded  him  that  in  war  times  sane  judgment  often  went  by 
the  board. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  but  it  is  simply  incredible  that  people  could 
believe  what  the  English  papers  have  printed  about  me  personally,  and 


l84  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

about  our  side  of  the  war.  Let 's  see  ;  how  many  times  have  I  committed 
suicide  or  been  wounded  ? " 

I  admitted  that  I  had  lost  count. 

"  I  am  supposed  recently  to  have  been  badly  defeated  on  the  Russian 
frontier,"  chuckled  his  highness.  "  But  this  whole  business  would  be 
much  more  amusing,"  he  added,  in  a  more  sober  tone,  "  if  I  did  not 
know  that  as  a  result  of  it  the  public  in  neutral  countries  is  being  misled. 

"As  to  my  being  a  war  agitator,  I  am  truly  sorry  that  people  do  not 
know  me  better.  There  is  no  war  party  in  Germany  now,  and  there 
never  has  been.  I  cannot  help  believing  it  will  soon  dawn  upon  the 
world  that  so  far  as  Germany  is  concerned,  this  conflict  is  not  a  war 
waged  by  some  mythical  party,  but  is  a  fight  backed  by  the  unity  and 
solidarity  of  the  German  empire.  This  unity  is  the  best  answer  to  the 
charge  with  which  England  is  endeavoring  to  terrify  the  world  —  that 
the  war  is  being  pushed  by  an  ambitious  military  clique." 

The  young  soldier  laughed  heartily  when  I  told  him  the  Russian  press 
bureau  had  recently  reported  that  their  troops  nearly  captured  the 
kaiser  during  a  recent  engagement  near  Warsaw. 

"  I  must  tell  father  about  that.  I  am  sure  it  w'ill  be  news  to  him,  and 
that  he  will  enjoy  it,"  he  said. 

Switching  to  the  subject  of  the  enemy,  the  crown  prince  said : 

"  The  French  soldiers  are  surpassed  by  none  for  their  bravery.  They 
have  fought  splendidly.  Individually  the  French  soldier  is  equal  in  every 
respect  to  our  own  intelligence  and  in  some  things  quicker  and  more  agile. 

"  But  he  is  a  defensive  fighter  and  lacks  the  dogged  determination 
and  staying  power  of  our  troops  when  it  comes  to  offensive  work.  Events 
have  shown  that  French  leadership  has  been  excellent  and  it  has  com- 
manded our  admiration." 

After  a  half  hour's  interview  we  were  interrupted  by  an  officer,  who 
reported  to  the  crown  prince  that  his  staff  was  mounted  and  waiting  out- 
side. First  inviting  me  to  have  dinner  with  him  that  evening,  his  high- 
ness excused  himself,  and  mounting  his  horse,  galloped  away  to  the 
scene  of  the  day's  fighting.  —  Karl  H.  Von  Wiegand,  United  Press 
Correspondent 

Editor's  Note.  The  significance  of  this  interview  with  Friedrich  Wilhelm, 
the  crown  prince  of  Germany,  rests  upon  the  startling  statement  that  the  Great 
War  is  stupid,  senseless,  and  unnecessary,  a  sentiment  of  enormous  moment  at 
the  time  it  was  printed.    This  direct  expression  of  his  views  has  been  lifted  from 


INTERVIEWS  185 

its  setting  and  made  the  nub  of  the  interview.  Amplification  of  this  opinion 
follows.  Generalizing  paragraphs  sketch  the  setting  of  the  interview  and  offer 
some  character  delineation  of  the  crown  prince.  The  story  is  a  boldly  phrased 
declaration  of  a  striking  point  of  view,  and  reflects  greatly  upon  the  persistency 
and  tact  of  the  interviewer,  who  had  evidently  courted  and  won  the  confidence 
and  respect  of  the  heir  to  the  German  throne.  The  interview  is  far  more  than 
a  personal  chat.  Not  even  in  America,  where  freedom  of  speech  prevails,  does 
the  President  permit  himself  to  be  quoted  in  the  first  person  on  any  matter  of 
portentous  national  policy.  Washington  correspondents  are  granted  hearings 
in  a  body.  Much  that  the  President  has  to  say  to  them  is  confidential,  not 
intended  for  publication. 

Commenting  on  the  Von  Wiegand  interview,  which  was  given  a  prominent 
place  on  the  first  pages  of  many  American  newspapers  and  furnished  the  basis 
of  extended  editorial  discussion,  J.  W.  T.  Mason,  former  European  manager 
of  the  United  Press,  remarks  : 

"  All  that  an  interview  with  the  heir  to  the  German  throne  means  is  n't  easily 
understood  in  a  republic,  separated  from  monarchical  influences.  The  diflRculties 
that  bar  journalistic  approach  to  any  of  the  European  courts  drive  away  most 
interviewers  at  the  outset  of  their  assault  upon  the  frowning  precedents.  Von 
Wiegand's  feat  is  but  the  third  successful  accomplishment  of  this  kind  in  recent 
years.  The  others  were  an  interview  with  the  late  King  Oscar  of  Sweden,  at 
the  time  of  Norway's  withdrawal  from  the  dual  Scandinavian  kingdom,  and  an 
interview  with  the  late  King  Leopold  of  Belgium,  when  the  Kongo  atrocity 
charges  were  being  made  against  his  rule.  Parenthetically,  all  three  interviews 
were  the  work  of  American  newspaper  men. 

"  This,  however,  is  but  the  technical  journalistic  side  of  royal  interviewing. 
More  important,  and  less  appreciated,  is  the  weight  of  authority  that  attaches 
to  imperial  words  publicly  spoken.  Declarations  of  no  statesmen  in  a  republic 
can  carry  such  finality.  Republican  officials  with  authoritative  influence  are  not 
permanently  in  power.  What  they  say  may  have  no  value  to-morrow,  because 
to-morrow  they  may  be  returned  to  private  life. 

"  Not  so  with  the  crown  prince  of  Germany.  His  influence  on  his  country 
is  a  future  necessity.  He  will  succeed  to  the  German  throne.  His  character 
and  ideals,  in  the  natural  course  of  events,  must  permanently  modify  a  mighty 
nation.  When  the  Hohenzollern  heir  gives  an  interview  at  a  critical  time  in 
his  country's  history,  what  he  says  is  like  the  voice  of  fate :  he  reveals  his 
personality  and  his  purposes ;  and  upon  these  two  forces,  Germany's  destiny 
largely  rests. 

"  This  is  what  makes  Von  Wiegand's  interview  a  great  journalistic  triumph 
and  an  important  contribution  to  history." 


1 86  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

FUNSTON  LONGS  FOR  THE  FARM 

Ottawa,  Kan.,  December  19. — "  I  wish  I  had  had  sense  enough  to 
stay  on  a  Kansas  farm." 

Maj.  Gen.  Frederick  Funston  said  it  one  afternoon  recently  as  he  looked, 
rather  pensively,  at  a  bedraggled  landscape  from  the  windows  of  a  Santa  Fe 
motor  car.    He  was  on  his  way  from  Emporia  to  the  (jld  home  at  Carlyle. 

"  I  was  raised  on  a  farm  and  I  like  the  feel  of  the  soil.  It 's  good  to 
hoe  potatoes  and  radishes  and  plow  corn,"  he  added. 

"  You  got  away  from  it  about  as  quickly  as  a  farm  boy  ever  did,"  his 
seat  mate  suggested. 

"  Yes,  and  I  was  a  rattle-pated  youngster  with  mighty  little  gumption, 
too,"  he  returned. 

"  But  you  would  n't  trade  those  experiences  for  a  dozen  farms  ?  You 
don't  regret  those  years  of  rich,  red  adventure,  surely  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not.  As  restless  as  I  was  I  suppose  I  should  never  have 
been  satisfied  unless  I  had,  but  —  " 

Finish  the  sentence  for  yourself.  General  Funston  did  not.  The  infer- 
ence is  that  the  gold  in  the  pot  at  the  end  of  the  rainbow  is  brass,  the 
field  marshal's  baton  only  a  stick  of  stove  wood  and  the  ambrosia  of  the 
red  gods  sour  wine. 

General  Funston  had  nothing  to  say  of  Mexico,  the  European  war  or 
the  other  things  that  help  fill  up  the  newspapers  these  days.  All  the 
king's  horses  could  not  drag  an  opinion  from  him. 

"  I  talked  too  much  when  I  came  back  from  the  Philippines  once," 
he  explained.  "  Now  the  Sphinx  has  nothing  on  me.  The  less  an  army 
officer  talks  the  better,  anyway." 

The  longest  statement  credited  to  Funston  since  he  entered  Kansas 
was  an  interview  in  a  Wichita  paper  lauding  that  city's  new  union  station, 
which  the  general  has  no  recollection  of  giving  out,  but  says  anticipated 
his  views  very  well. 

Once  he  almost  let  escape  an  opinion  on  the  war.  His  attention  was 
called  to  the  contradictory  beliefs  of  anonymous  officers. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said,  "  army  men  are  quite  as  apt  to  disagree  about 
things  military  as  women  about  hats.  The  war  is  not  far  enough  along 
for  me  to  have  an  opinion  of  its  outcome  if  I  were  free  to  express  it." 

But  no  censorship  prevented  a  free  discussion  of  old  times  with  '''  Will  " 
White,  at  Emporia,  earlier  in  the  day. 


INTERVIEWS  187 

"  Remember  the  time  I  licked  '  Cassowary '  out  in  the  middle  of 
Kentucky  street,  while  a  lot  of  scandalized  feminine  heads  looked  out  of 
upper  story  windows  ?  "  asked  the  general. 

"  I  was  performing  as  the  frat  steward  and  getting  nothing  out  of  it, 
and  the  '  Cassowary '  was  always  yelping  about  the  food,"  the  general 
explained  to  the  outsider.    "  Finally  I  got  tired  of  his  grumbling." 

"  And  tell  him  about  you  and  Herb  Hadley  that  summer  up  in  Estes 
Park,"  suggested  White. 

The  incident  concerning  the  former  governor  of  Missouri  was  lost  in 
much  other  ''  reminiscing  "  of  the  Estes  Park  Camp  one  summer  in  the 
late  8o's.  The  general's  chief  concern  on  the  way  to  Ottawa,  where 
he  changed  trains  for  Carlyle,  was  his  dinner.  "  I  did  n't  eat  enough  to 
keep  a  humming  bird  alive  in  Vera  Cruz,"  he  explained,  "  but  as  I  have 
come  North  my  appetite  has  kept  pace  with  the  latitude." 

In  Emporia  General  Funston  was  the  guest  of  his  sister,  Mrs.  F.  A. 
Eckdall,  and  Doctor  Eckdall.  Two  cousins,  Miss  Maude  Minrow  and 
Mrs.  D.  F.  Longnecker,  also  live  in  Emporia. 

His  mother  and  two  brothers  live  on  the  old  homestead  a  mile  outside 
Carlyle.  He  has  not  seen  them  in  four  years,  since  he  was  transferred 
from  Leavenworth. 

"  I  shall  leave  Carlyle  in  a  few  days,  for  San  Francisco,  stopping  one 
day  in  Denver  to  visit  F.  L.  Webster,  who  used  to  own  the  Lawrence 
Gazette"  the  general  said.  "  Nothing  would  please  me  more  than  an 
opportunity  to  visit  around  in  Kansas  with  the  folks  I  know,  but  I  have 
an  eight-months-old  daughter  whom  I  never  have  seen  at  the  Presidio 
with  my  wife,  and  my  furlough  is  for  two  months  only." 

In  Vera  Cruz  General  Funston  had  the  company  of  two  old  Kansas 
friends,  Paul  Hudson,  editor  of  the  Mexica7i  Herald,  and  "  Jack  "  Lang- 
ston,  yardmaster  for  the  terminal  company  there.  Hudson  was  a  school- 
mate at  the  University  of  Kansas  and  Langston  was  with  the  Santa  Fe 
at  Topeka  when  Funston  was  a  train  auditor  on  that  road  twenty-five 
years  ago. 

Funston  is  49  years  old,  but  the  sixteen  years  of  rigorous  army  life  of 
the  Funston  sort  have  left  the  general  a  trifle  grizzled,  but  little  changed 
outwardly  or  inwardly.  There  is  an  added  poise  and  reserve  and  a  trace 
of  melancholy  or  pensiveness  in  his  face  which  a  letter  of  lavish  praise 
from  the  President  of  the  United  States  and  newly  acquired  epaulets 
of  a  major  general  seem  not  to  have  affected. 


1 88  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

That  may  explain  the  yearning  for  the  soil  or  perhaps  merely  is  hunger 
for  the  sight  of  that  eight-months-old  daughter. 

"  Is  Kansas  or  California  to  have  you  when  you  retire  ?  "  he  was  asked. 

"That  is  too  far  away  to  figure  on,"  said  he.  —  S^.  Louis  Globe- 
Democrat 

Editor's  Note.  Unlike  the  interview  with  the  crown  prince,  this  inter- 
view with  Major-General  Frederick  Funston  deals  largely  with  the  human  and 
personal  side  of  the  man  rather  than  with  any  unusual  views  he  may  hold  re- 
garding war  or  military  maneuvers.  In  fact,  there  is  ample  evidence  here  to 
show  that  the  efforts  of  the  interviewer  to  secure  a  significant  expert  opinion 
from  General  Funston  met  only  with  defeat.  Certainly  the  facts  contained  in 
this  interview  are  harmless  and  cannot  be  construed  into  an  unwise  criticism 
of  government  policies.  The  story  is  interesting,  however,  because  it  brings 
out  General  Funston's  longing  for  the  farm  and  for  the  old  days  of  his  boyhood. 
It  reveals  him  in  the  guise  of  a  plain  man,  shorn  of  his  regimentals,  eager  to 
see  his  old  friends  once  more.  It  is  a  sympathetic  piece  of  writing,  told  in  a 
friendly,  conversational  vein. 


PHYSICIAN  WOULD   FREE  HOME  SLAVES 

"  Smash  all  the  dishes  ! 

"  Down  with  '  homelike  kitchens  1 ' 

"  Fire  all  the  servants !  " 

"  Rip  out  all  the  walls  of  the  home  1 

"  Build  houses  of  glass  I 

"  Do  away  with  foolish  diet  fads  !  " 

In  one  breath  did  Dr.  Woods  Hutchinson,  the  writer  and  hygienic  ex- 
pert, shatter  all  cherished  New  England  home  traditions  a  few  days  ago. 

The  woman  in  the  home  is  a  slave,  and  her  methods  are  no  further 
advanced  than  when  the  Mayflower  first  brought  her  to  Plymouth  in 
1620,  he  said. 

Startling  substitutes  for  her  shortcomings  did  the  hygiene  expert 
advance.  Not  until  she  follows  his  advice  and  adopts  his  suggestions 
will  she  be  an  intelligent  home-maker,  he  averred. 

"  The  present  day  housekeeper  and  her  hired  girl  are  surviving  types 
of  the  slave  status,"  the  doctor  declared  with  considerable  emphasis. 
"  In  the  first  place  the  modern  woman  still  spends  too  much  time  in 
the  home.    She  will  never  be  able  to  give  intellie^ent  consideration  to  her 


INTERVIEWS  189 

housework  as  long  as  she  confines  her  interests  to  its  four  walls.  If 
women  do  not  want  to  do  things  outside,  they  should  be  compelled  to." 

"  But  what  about  the  dishwashing  and  all  the  routine  duties  that 
keep  women  in  the  house  ? "  the  doctor  was  asked. 

"  Ah,  that  is  just  the  trouble.  There  should  n't  be  any  dishes.  The 
dishes  should  all  be  smashed,  or,  if  you  want  to  show  them  off,  put 
them  in  a  cabinet  and  lock  them  up. 

"  China  dishes  that  must  be  washed  after  every  meal  are  unpractical 
and  unnecessary.  We  should  break  all  the  dishes  and  substitute  varnished 
or  paraffined-paper  plates,  that  can  be  burned  up  after  each  meal. 

''  Women  have  n't  yet  learned  that  the  kitchen  is  a  laboratory.  I  have 
heard  housekeepers  say, '  Oh,  I  like  a  big,  cozy  kitchen.  It  is  so  homelike!' 

"  Now,  the  model  kitchen  is  small  enough  to  enable  one  to  reach  for 
anything  she  wants  without  getting  up  from  her  chair.  The  floor  should 
be  of  tile  or  cement,  and  the  walls  of  tile,  so  that  they  can  be  cleaned  by 
turning  a  hose  on  them. 

"  This  house  kitchen,"  Doctor  Hutchinson  continued,  "  should  only  be 
used  in  preparing  the  minor  part  of  the  meal.  The  big  staples  should 
be  prepared  in  a  communal  kitchen.  The  meats  and  the  coarser  vege- 
tables can  be  prepared  here,  and  a  menu  sent  around  to  the  homes  for 
the  housewife  to  choose  from. 

"  The  greatest  trouble  with  the  women  of  today  is  that  they  have  not 
standardized  their  work.  The  day  of  the  general  worker  is  over.  When 
women  begin  to  do  their  work  with  brains,  instead  of  hind  feet,  they  will 
find  that  housework  is  simple  and  fascinating. 

"  A  girl  should  be  trained  to  do  one  branch  of  housework,  and  one 
only.  As  soon  as  she  had  finished  her  specialty  in  one  home  she  would 
pass  on  to  the  next,  and  another  girl  would  come  in  and  do  the  work  for 
which  she  had  specialized. 

"  As  for  the  general  house  cleaning,  that  should  be  done  by  a  squad 
of  house  launderers,  who,  with  vacuum-cleaning  machines  could  rid  the 
house  of  every  grain  of  dust  in  a  few  minutes. 

"  There  should  be  no  servant  class,"  the  doctor  further  declared.  "  If  we 
should  substitute  instead  a  skilled  and  trained  class  of  workwomen  and 
workmen,  the  name '  servant '  and  its  attending  stigma  would  be  banished." 

To  simplify  household  labor  further  and  to  preserve  health  in  the 
home,  Doctor  Hutchinson  advocates  the  ripping  out  of  partitions  that 
divide  the  house  into  various  rooms. 


I90  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  With  the  exception  of  the  compact  laboratory  kitchen,  the  whole 
floor  should  be  free  from  obstructing  walls,"  he  stated.  "  Of  course,  one 
could  have  movable  partitions  to  set  up  at  one's  will,  but  there  should  be 
no  built-in  partitions. 

The  house  itself,  according  to  Doctor  Hutchinson's  plan,  should  be 
built  of  cement,  steel  and  glass,  much  like  the  factories.  No  house  should 
be  allowed  to  stand  after  fifty  years. 

"  At  least  two  thirds  of  the  wall  space  should  be  glass,"  he  maintained, 
"  and  no  one  need  hesitate  to  throw  stones  on  that  account,  because 
glass  may  be  made  resistible. 

"  One  could  use  shades  for  the  portion  of  the  house  where  the  light 
is  too  strong,  but  the  old  idea  about  privacy  should  be  done  away  with." 

'l"he  bedroom  of  the  model  house  advocated  by  Doctor  Hutchinson 
should  be  built  like  a  closed-in  porch,  so  that  two  of  its  sides  may  be 
thrown  open  to  light  and  air. 

In  addition  to  spending  too  much  time  on  their  household,  most 
women.  Doctor  Hutchinson  says,  worry  too  much  about  their  diet. 

'"  These  diet  fads  are  foolish,"  he  concluded  impatiently.  "  Now,  there 
are  many  people  worrying  themselves  ill  trying  to  avoid  eating  meat.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  the  vigor  and  health  of  a  people  is  in  proportion  to  the 
amount  of  meat  they  eat.  Americans  eat  more  meat  than  any  other 
people,  and  they  are  the  tallest  and  strongest  race." — Boston  Post 

Editor's  Note.  This  is  an  interview  that  brings  a  special  appeal  to  the 
women  of  the  household,  because  of  the  iconoclastic  views  held  by  Dr.  Woods 
Hutchinson,  a  popular  expositor  on  hygiene  and  health.  The  most  striking 
statement  made  in  the  course  of  the  conversation  has  been  focused  in  the 
opening  paragraphs  in  short,  hammering  sentences.  The  lead  shows  that  the 
reporter  has  not  hesitated  to  violate  narrative  sequence,  but  has  chosen  declara- 
tions sufficiendy  out  of  the  ordinary  to  secure  an  audience.  The  interview  is  a 
vigorous  presentation  of  personal  convictions.  The  views  advanced  may  or 
may  not  be  sound.  If  they  arouse  profitable  discussion  they  have  served  their 
purpose.  The  exact  slant  of  the  sentences  has  been  preserved,  and  variety  of 
structure  has  been  secured  by  the  addition  of  compact  summarizing  sentences, 
set  into  the  body  of  the  conversation.  The  interview  is  readable  because  it 
is  built  round  a  popular  theme  —  efficiency  in  the  home.  The  use  of  Doctor 
Hutchinson  as  the  spokesman  and  champion  of  these  opinions  gives  the  story 
added  interest  and  importance.  Notice  the  paragraphing  of  this  interview, 
especially  in  the  opening  sentences.  Oftentimes  a  reporter  or  copy  reader 
violates  rhetorical  rules  in  the  interests  of  easy  reading  and  starding  effect. 


INTERVIEWS  191 

AN   EAGER  FACE,  SIGHTLESS  EYES,  A  HEROIC  VOICE  AND 
A  SMILE-THAT'S  MISS  KELLER 

An  eager  face  ;  sightless  eyes  that  seem  to  be  looking  for  something ; 
lips  that  are  ready  to  laugh ;  a  voice  that  forces  brave,  cheerful,  thrilling 
words  slowly  through  inconceivable  difficulties ;  a  groping  hand  with 
flexible  fingers.    So  it  is  that  Helen  Keller  greets  interviewers. 

They  are  not  interviewers  to  her,  evidently ;  they  are  fresh  points 
of  contact  with  the  world ;  and  she  turns  to  them  with  the  entire  confi- 
dence and  insatiable  interest  that  her  tragic,  triumphant  life  has  made 
her  feel  in  everything  human. 

She,  her  mother,  and  her  teacher,  Mrs.  Macy,  reached  Seattle  yesterday 
afternoon,  tired  from  much  traveling.  Miss  Keller  speaks  Monday 
evening,  and  they  will  rest  until  then,  the  first  breathing  space  they  have 
had  since  they  left  Boston  last  September.  But  she  was  not  too  tired  to 
be  interested  in  everything.  Her  flashing  mind  can  hardly  wait  for  the 
slow  process  of  spelling  a  conversation  into  her  hand,  fast  though  Mrs. 
Macy's  fingers  fly.  She  asks  questions  faster  than  they  can  be  answered  ; 
she  answers  them  before  they  are  half  asked ;  and  her  thoughts  run  so 
far  ahead  of  her  halting  tongue  that  she  is  fairly  shaken  with  the  effort 
to  express  them.  When  the  finger  talk  is  unbearably  slow,  her  hand  seeks 
her  teacher's  face,  to  read  the  words  as  they  leave  her  lips. 

"  I  have  looked  forward  to  being  in  Seattle ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  is  such 
glorious  weather  !  Where  are  the  pretty  places  to  go  .-'  Are  you  a  native  of 
Seattle  ?  Everybody  I  meet  has  just  come  recently.  Are  there  no  natives  .-'  " 

"  But  were  you  yourself  born  where  you  live  ?  "  one  rejoined,  and  her 
hearty  laugh  welcomed  the  parry.  "  No  !  P'ifteen  hundred  miles  from 
there,  in  Alabama,"  she  answered.  "  And  I  shall  be  four  thousand  miles 
from  home  on  Easter,"  she  added  reflectively.  "  But  I  am  at  home 
everywhere.    Everybody  loves  me.  " 

It  was  the  simple,  unemphatic  statement  of  an  experience. 

In  the  mail  that  had  followed  them  was  a  little  package  containing  a 
tiny  Easter  hat,  the  joking  gift  of  some  friend.  Mrs.  Macy  solemnly 
spelled  into  Miss  Keller's  hand,  "  Someone  has  sent  you  a  nice  Easter 
hat,"  and  placed  the  infinitesimal  object  in  the  seeking  fingers. 

The  shock  of  surprise  flashed  from  her  hand  to  her  face,  and  she 
laughed  delightedly  as  she  felt  of  its  comical  dimensions.  "  Not  a  very 
good  fit !  "  she  commented,  perching  it  for  an  instant  on  her  head. 


192  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

She  loves  to  laugh,  this  woman  whose  story  makes  throats  ache  with  sym- 
pathy and  hearts  swell  with  admiration.   And  still  more,  she  loves  to  learn. 

"  How  many  newspapers  arc  there  in  Seattle  .'* "  she  wished  to  know. 
"  What  is  the  politics  of  each  ?  " 

And  then,  "  Are  you  a  suffragist  ?  Good  !  Everybody  should  be  1  " 

Whereupon  the  interviewer  was  emboldened  to  ask  if  Miss  Keller 
would  mind  saying  for  publication  what  she  thinks  of  militancy. 

Mrs.  Macy's  eyes  twinkled,  as  she  spelled : 

"  Are  you  a  militant,  Helen  ?  " 

"  Yes  1  "  with  tremendous  energy. 

"'  Are  you  afraid  to  let  them  publish  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  No  1  "  with  still  more  fire. 

"  '  They  are  slaves  who  will  not  choose 
Hatred,  scoffing  and  abuse 
Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 
From  the  truth  they  needs  must  think.' 

"  Was  n't  it  Lowell  who  said  that  ?   It  is  true  !  " 

She  was  deeply  interested  on  being  told  that  a  movement  is  on  foot 
to  establish  an  industrial  school  and  workshop  for  the  blind  in  Seattle. 

'"  Oh,  I  am  glad  to  hear  that !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  But  what  about  the 
deaf?  There  should  be  a  school  for  them,  too,"  she  added,  and  something 
made  the  interviewer  wonder  suddenly  if  silence  were  not  a  heavier  cross 
than  darkness.  On  learning  that  there  is  a  school  for  the  deaf  connected 
with  the  Washington  school,  she  said  earnestly :  "  I  am  so  glad  it  is  in 
connection  with  a  public  school.  Because  it  is  good  for  the  blind  and  the 
deaf  to  be  with  people  who  can  see  and  hear.  And  —  "  she  leaned  for- 
ward, tense  and  quivering,  "it  is  good  for  those  who  can  see  and  hear 
to  be  with  the  blind  and  the  deaf  and  help  them  in  their  struggle  for 
e.\istence !  " 

Referring  to  the  reports  that  Miss  Keller  had  heard  the  sound  of  a 
singer's  voice  some  weeks  ago,  Mrs.  Macy  said : 

"  She  thinks  she  heard.  Madam  Stevens  stood  very  close  to  her, 
singing  the  cry  from  '  Die  Walkure.'  You  know  that  is  very  shrill  and 
high  and  loud,  and  Helen  said  she  felt  a  sensation  in  her  fingers  different 
from  anything  she  had  ever  felt  before.  We  think  it  probably  was  the 
excitement  of  the  situation.    She  thinks  she  heard." 

The  understanding  between  these  two  marvelous  women  seems  almost 
supernatural.    As  they  sit  hand  in  hand,  they  are  like  two  halves  of  one 


INTERVIEWS  193 

intelligence.  It  must  be  a  kind  of  finger  shorthand  that  Mrs.  Macy  uses, 
for  she  can  almost  keep  pace  with  the  ordinary  conversation ;  and  the 
subtle  bond  of  comprehension  between  them  does  the  rest. 

It  is  a  thing  to  make  one  humble,  to  stand  face  to  face  with  these  two 
who  have  conquered  Fate  —  the  great  soul  that  speaks  nothing  but 
courage  and  cheer  and  helpfulness  through  its  prison  walls,  and  the  other 
great  soul  that  found  the  way  to  let  it  speak.  —  Mabel  Abbott,  in 
Seattle  Sun 

Editor's  Note.  This  interview  with  Helen  Keller  is  more  an  impression- 
istic portrait  than  a  matter-of-fact  statement  of  her  opinions.  It  is  an  inter- 
pretation of  the  remarkable  personality  of  a  girl  battling  against  tremendous 
handicaps.  The  interviewer  is  more  intent  upon  the  study  of  an  eager  face, 
sightless  eyes,  groping  hands,  and  moving  lips  than  upon  the  recording  of 
any  significant  information  that  such  an  interview  might  bring  to  the  surface. 
This  story  is  particularly  human  and  intimate,  and  reveals  clearly  a  feminine 
sympathy  and  a  warm  admiration.  These  two  qualities  enhance  the  value  of 
any  interview.  The  exuberance  of  Miss  Keller,  her  brave  philosophy  of  life, 
and  her  wistful  yearning  to  know  the  world  and  its  people  are  all  set  down 
with  unstudied  charm.  The  interviewer  herself  does  not  obtrude  into  the  pic- 
ture. All  the  emphasis  has  been  placed  upon  the  delineation  of  this  remarkable 
woman.  The  story  pulses  with  heart-interest.  The  interviewer's  tribute  at 
the  close  is  happily  phrased. 


VIII 

POLICE  STORIES 

The  treatment  of  crime  and  criminals  in  the  so-called  police 
story  has  divided  newspaper  men  into  two  opposing  camps.  One 
group  believes  that  it  is  the  sole  business  of  the  newspaper  to 
mirror  life  as  it  is.  "  The  editor  makes  a  contract  with  his  patrons 
to  furnish  the  news  and  he  is  the  judge  of  what  news  is,"  re- 
marks an  editorial  writer.  "  To  comply  with  this  contract  he 
must  print  the  happenings  of  the  community,  county,  district, 
state,  nation,  of  the  world.  He  is  not  responsible  for  what  hap- 
pens." Such  a  definition  of  the  province  of  journalism  necessarily 
includes  a  full  recital  of  burglary,  murder,  suicide,  embezzle- 
ment, sheer  animal  brutality ;  in  short,  the  soiled  annals  of  the 
police  station.  Newspaper  men  who  accept  the  mirror  theory 
publish  the  story  of  crime  in  alluring  picture  and  startling  head- 
line. Nothing  is  kept  back.  They  are  giving  the  public  what  it 
wants  —  news.  And  such  men  have  some  authority  to  give  their 
opinions  weight.  Charles  A.  Dana,  brilliant  editor  of  the  New 
York  Sun,  declared  that  what  the  Divine  Providence  permitted  to 
occur  he  was  not  too  proud  to  report.  E.  W.  Howe,  veteran  news- 
paper editor,  evidently  bends  to  the  same  conviction,  for  he  adds, 
"  The  wages  of  sin  is  publicity." 

The  other  group  of  newspaper  men  swings  to  the  other  extreme. 
The  CJiristian  Science  Monitor  is  a  notable  leader  of  a  journalism 
that  suppresses  the  evils  of  the  world.  In  so  far  as  it  is  concerned, 
lust,  vice,  wickedness,  man's  inhumanity  to  man,  have  no  reality. 
It  would  reject  the  wrong  and  hold  fast  to  the  good.  The  reason 
is  clear.  Printed  details  of  a  suicide  suggest  self-destruction  to  the 
disheartened  and  the  friendless  ;  a  gruesome  murder,  described, 
talked  about,  degrades  and  horrifies;  a  revolting  underworld  police 
trial  translated  into  print  poisons  the  atmosphere  of  home.  Crime 
is  destructive,  vicious,  ugly.    It  has  no  place  in  the  newspaper 

194 


POLICE  STORIES  195 

pledged  to  the  conservation  of  a  community's  highest  standards  of 
thought  and  conduct. 

Both  points  of  view  are  radical,  both  inadequate.  The  first  is  at 
fault  because  of  highly  colored  sensationalizing  of  vice  and  crime. 
A  newspaper  does  not  print  everything  it  knows  ;  it  selects  only  a 
minute  fraction  of  the  interesting  and  important  happenings  of  a 
day.  The  second  point  of  view,  the  suppression  of  the  disagreeable 
and  the  sordid,  is  also  untenable,  because  it  fails  to  recognize  the 
corrective  power  of  publicity.  So7}ie  ciimes  should  be  handled, 
biit  ivitJi  restjnint  and  disennmiation. 

The  practice  of  constructive  journalism  may  perhaps  best  be 
illustrated  by  the  treatment  given  the  execution  of  four  murderers, 
in  the  columns  of  the  Evening  Bulletin  of  Providence,  Rhode 
Island.  The  execution  was  described  in  just  fifty-four  lines,  and 
yet  every  important  fact  that  related  to  the  incident  was  given  a 
place  in  the  story.    This  note  by  the  editor  preceded  the  report : 

Following  its  custom  of  several  years  past  the  Evening  Bulletin  gives  to 
its  readers  only  the  essential  facts  of  this  last  act  in  a  tragedy  of  corruption 
and  bloodshed.  The  details  of  an  execution  are  always  the  same  —  always 
sordid,  always  disgusting,  and  never  of  any  value  for  any  moral  purpose  or  for 
any  news  interest. 

Here,  then,  is  an  editor  with  a  social  vision.  He  is  courageous 
enough  to  purge  his  newspaper  of  every  detail  likely  to  have  a 
vitiating  effect  on  good  morals  and  decency.  He  reports  the  news, 
but  he  "  edits  "  out  of  the  story  objectional  features  that  can  serve 
no  good  end. 

This  entire  matter  of  news  selection  and  news  treatment,  as 
they  relate  to  crime  and  criminals,  has  been  admirably  summed 
up  by  Joseph  Pulitzer,  for  many  years  the  dynamic  editor  of  the 
New  York  World,  in  the  following  words  : 

Now  about  this  matter  of  sensationalism  ;  a  newspaper  should  be  scrupu- 
lously accurate,  it  should  be  clean,  it  should  avoid  everything  salacious  or 
suggestive,  everything  that  could  offend  good  taste  or  lower  the  moral  tone  of 
its  readers ;  but  within  these  limits  it  is  the  duty  of  a  newspaper  to  print  the 
news.  When  I  speak  of  good  taste  and  of  good  moral  tone  I  do  not  mean  the 
kind  of  good  taste  which  is  offended  by  every  reference  to  the  unpleasant  things 
of  life,  I  do  not  mean  the  kind  of  morality  which  refuses  to  recognize  the  exist- 
ence of  immorality  —  that  type  of  moral  hypocrite  has  done  more  to  check  the 


196  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

moral  progress  of  humanity  than  all  the  immoral  people  put  together;  what 
I  mean  is  the  kind  of  good  taste  which  demands  that  frankness  should  be 
linked  with  decency,  the  kind  of  moral  tone  which  is  braced  and  not  relaxed 
when  it  is  brought  face  to  face  with  vice. 

Some  people  try  to  make  you  believe  that  a  newspaper  should  not  devote 
its  space  to  long  and  dramatic  accounts  of  murders,  railroad  wrecks,  fires, 
lynchings,  political  corruption,  embezzlements,  frauds,  graft,  divorces,  what 
you  will.  I  tell  you  they  are  wrong,  and  I  believe  that  if  they  thought  the 
thing  out  they  would  see  it. 

We  are  a  democracy,  and  there  is  only  one  way  to  get  a  democracy  on  its 
feet  in  the  matter  of  its  individual,  its  social,  its  municipal,  its  state,  its  national 
conduct,  and  that  is  by  keeping  the  public  informed  about  what  is  going  on. 
There  is  not  a  crime,  there  is  not  a  dodge,  there  is  not  a  trick,  there  is  not 
a  swindle,  there  is  not  a  vice,  which  does  not  live  by  secrecy.  Get  these  things 
out  in  the  open,  describe  them,  attack  them,  ridicule  them  in  the  press,  and 
sooner  or  later  public  opinion  will  sweep  them  away.^ 

The  following  stories  are  printed  to  show  how  some  newspapers, 
conscious  of  their  responsibility  to  the  home,  may  have  a  deterrent 
effect  upon  crime  and  criminals  in  their  handling  of  police  stories, 
and  also  how  they  may  render  constructive  service  in  the  cause 
of  righteousness. 


INSANE  FATHER  MURDERS  CHILDREN  AND  KILLS  HIMSELF 

FiTCHBURG,  Mass.,  April  14,  (1913).  —  Ernest  Moschner,  aged  35, 
murdered  his  four  children  and  then  killed  himself  by  shooting  at  his 
home  on  Rollstone  street  today.  Condnued  ill  health  made  the  man 
temporarily  insane,  the  police  believe.  Moschner's  wife,  upon  returning 
from  work,  discovered  the  bodies  of  her  children  and  husband  with 
bullet  holes  in  their  heads. 

The  murdered  children  are  Elsie,  aged  12,  Myrde,  aged  11,  Norman, 
aged  8  and  Ernest,  aged  6. 

According  to  the  police  the  children  were  playing  in  the  yard  when 
their  father  called  them  upstairs  to  his  bedroom.  There,  from  the  marks 
of  the  muddy  feet,  the  officers  believe  he  lined  the  children  up  in  front 
of  the  bed. 

While  the  children,  half  frightened  by  their  father's  manner,  were 
gazing  at  him,  Moschner  drew  a  32-calibre  revolver  and  fired  at  his 

1  Quoted  by  AUeyne  Ireland,  former  secretary  of  Joseph  Pulitzer,  in  his  reminiscences. 


POLICE  STORIES  197 

eldest  daughter  Elsie.  The  bullet  entered  the  head  near  the  left  ear, 
causing  instant  death. 

The  other  children  then  broke  from  the  room  madly.  Ernest,  the 
youngest  child,  was  found  crumpled  lifeless  on  the  floor  of  a  closet  in 
the  front  room  of  the  same  floor.  This  shot,  too,  entered  the  left  side 
of  the  head  just  below  the  temple. 

Myrtle  and  Norman  fled  downstairs.  There  Myrtle  sought  vain  refuge 
in  a  closet.  Her  maddened  father  was  too  quick  for  her,  his  unerring 
aim  bringing  her  down  just  as  she  stumbled  over  the  threshold. 

From  appearances,  only  one  of  the  children  had  any  chance  for  self- 
defense.  Norman,  the  older  boy,  was  found  in  the  coal  bin,  his  torn 
clothes  and  the  blood-spattered  club  beside  him  mute  evidences  of  his 
brave  but  futile  struggle. 

Moschner  then  retraced  his  steps,  first  covering  up  Norman's  body 
with  rags  and  boards.  Halting  at  the  closet  on  the  first  floor  he  covered 
Myrde's  body.  Then  entering  his  bedroom  he  drew  a  sheet  over  Elsie's 
form  as  it  lay  on  the  bed  and,  standing  beside  her,  sent  a  bullet  into  his 
brain,  causing  instant  death. 

Two  hours  later  Mrs.  Moschner  came  home ;  missing  the  sound  of 
the  children's  voices  and  noticing  the  overturned  furniture,  she  rushed 
upstairs  to  her  husband's  room  and  found  his  body  and  Elsie's.  She 
fell  in  a  dead  faint,  and  when  she  recovered,  ran  shrieking  out  of  the 
house  to  call  her  neighbors. 

Moschner,  the  police  learned,  bought  his  revolver  this  morning.  Up 
to  a  short  time  ago  he  had  been  a  tuberculosis  patient  at  the  state  hos- 
pital in  Rutland.  Previously  he  had  been  employed  as  a  baker  for 
23  years.  When  his  health  broke  down  he  bought  a  delivery  wagon  and 
delivered  bakehouse  goods.  When  he  grew  too  weak  for  this  work  his 
wife  took  up  the  work.  Brooding  over  his  poor  health,  the  police  think, 
caused  his  mind  to  become  unbalanced. 

Medical  Examiner  Frederick  H.  Thompson,  who  viewed  the  bodies, 
arranged  for  the  autopsies  to  be  performed. 

Editor's  Note.  Attention  is  called  to  the  clear  and  unemotional  statement 
of  the  murder  of  his  four  children  by  the  insane  father,  under  the  strain  of  ill 
health.  The  details  are  massed  without  an  attempt  to  present  a  lurid  picture, 
but  rather  to  recite  the  story  of  the  murder  without  recourse  to  human-interest 
colorings  or  melodramatics.  Nothing  needful  to  a  complete  understanding  has 
been  omitted,  and  yet  restraint  and  a  freedom  from  sendmentalism  mark  every 
line.    There  is  no  mention  of  a  struggle  or  frantic  cries  for  help. 


198  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

EXAMPLES  OF  CONSTRUCTIVE  JOURNALLSM 

FATHER   WOULD   GIVE  A  FORTUNE    FOR  SON'S   RELEASE 

William  R.  Hodge,  father  of  Walter  Hodge,  who  stabbed  to  death 
Floyd  Johnson  following  a  gambling  brawl  in  a  back  room  of  the  Palace 
Cafe  in  High  street,  near  Town,  at  2.30  o'clock  Saturday  morning,  ar- 
rived in  Columbus  yesterday  morning  from  Toledo.  He  is  a  heart-broken 
man,  shaken  with  grief.  With  him  came  Dell  Hall,  chief  of  detectives  of 
Toledo,  a  cousin  of  young  Hodge,  and  two  attorneys,  Frank  Wortsmith 
and  W.  E.  Roney.  The  lawyers  will  consult  with  Daniel  J.  Ryan  and 
Frederick  Rector,  local  attorneys,  and  a  hard  fight  will  be  made  in  the 
courts  to  save  Hodge's  life. 

Mr.  Hodge  is  a  wealthy  banker  of  Toledo,  a  former  member  of  the 
Democratic  state  central  committee,  a  city  councilman  of  Toledo,  and 
is  well  known  as  a  capitalist  and  business  man. 

Immediately  upon  his  arrival  here  he  went  to  the  city  prison  to  see 
what  arrangements  could  be  made  to  secure  his  son's  release  on  bond. 
He  was  told  that  an  inquest  had  not  been  held  as  yet,  and  until  that 
time  no  arrangements  for  releasing  his  son  could  be  made. 

"  I  am  willing  to  pay  $50,000,  or  to  sell  all  my  property  just  to  get 
my  boy  out  of  prison,"  said  he,  with  a  catch  in  his  voice.  "  I  have  just 
come  from  my  wife  and  family,  and  they  all  want  to  know  the  particulars 
of  this  awful  crime  as  soon  as  they  possibly  can.  I  had  hoped  to  furnish 
bond  enough  to  secure  Walter's  release.  You  see  this  is  the  first  crime 
he  has  ever  committed  and  I  cannot  understand  his  motive. 

"  Just  a  week  ago  the  boy  left  Toledo,  where  he  was  a  clerk  in  the 
Home  Savings  Bank,  and  came  to  Columbus  to  seek  his  fortune,  as  he 
called  it.  He  said  he  did  not  want  to  be  dependent  upon  his  old  'dad' 
for  his  living." 

The  meeting  of  father  and  son  in  a  prison  cell  was  an  affecting  one. 
Tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  both. 

'"  Father,"  said  the  son,  "  I  cut  only  in  self-defense.  There  were  two 
men  assaulting  me  and  I  acted  only  as  anyone  else  would  have  done 
under  the  circumstances.  I  believe  I  was  justified  in  doing  what  I  did. 
I  suppose  I  was  n't  quite  myself.  You  see  I  was  horribly  lonesome  and 
tried  to  forget  my  troubles  by  boozing.  I  got  in  with  a  bad  lot,  and 
you  know  the  rest." 


POLICE  STORIES  199 

Before  leaving  the  prison  Mr.  Hodge  ordered  a  sumptuous  chicken 
dinner  to  be  served  to  his  son  in  his  narrow  cage.  The  boy  left  only 
the  dishes. 

Mr.  Hodge  said  last  night  that  he  had  come  prepared  to  stay  until 
his  son  Walter  was  safely  out  of  the  difficulty  and  acquitted  of  the 
charges  placed  against  him.  He  was  much  fatigued  after  the  day's  jour- 
ney and  went  to  bed  early.  "  I  'U  remain  in  Columbus  until  my  boy 
is  free.    We  '11  go  home  together,"  were  his  final  words. 

A  State  Journal  reporter  yesterday  interviewed  Charles  Pierce,  the 
man  who  was  slashed  across  the  cheek  during  the  brawl.    Pierce  said : 

"  It  all  started  over  a  gambling  game.  Floyd  Johnson,  Flem  and  I  were 
sitting  at  a  table  in  the  Palace  saloon  throwing  dice  yesterday  morning 
about  two  o'clock  when  Hodge  drifted  in  and  asked  to  be  permitted  to 
join  the  game.  I  never  saw  the  man  before  in  my  life  and  was  a  litde 
leery  about  letting  him  in.  Besides  it  was  after  closing  hours  and  we 
were  afraid  of  the  police.  The  fellow  insisted,  so  we  finally  allowed  him 
to  join  in  the  game. 

"  Hodge  lost  the  game  and  refused  to  pay.  We  began  to  jaw  and 
wrangle  about  it.    All  of  us  were  a  bit  groggy,  I  guess. 

"  '  I  '11  pay  the  bill  in  order  to  stop  this  row,'  said  I. 

"  '  That  '11  be  all  right,'  said  Hodge,  '  I  've  got  more  money  than  all 
the  rest  of  you  put  together.' 

"  I  noticed  that  he  had  a  big  knife  up  his  sleeve,  and  I  told  the  bar- 
tender about  it.    He  told  all  of  us  to  get  out  of  his  place. 

"  We  had  just  reached  the  sidewalk  when  Hodge  made  a  lunge  at 
me  with  his  knife  and  slashed  me  on  the  left  arm.  I  picked  up  a  board 
which  was  lying  in  the  gutter  and  struck  him. 

"  '  D you,   I  '11  cut  your  d •  throat,  too,'  he  yelled,  and  then 

is  when  he  cut  me  across  the  throat. 

"  I  ran  across  the  street,  and  Johnson  attacked  Hodge.  I  did  n't 
see  much  of  the  fight,  but  had  just  reached  the  Three-Cent  Restaurant 
when  I  heard  Floyd  call  to  me. 

"  I  ran  back  as  quickly  as  I  could  and  found  him  bleeding  to  death.  He 
ran  to  the  restaurant  and  saw  Miss  Cain,  a  waitress,  standing  at  the  door. 

" '  Send  for  a  doctor,  quick,'  he  said.    '  I'm  cut.' 

"  Then  he  fell  over  into  her  arms. 

"  The  ambulance  was  called  and  took  Floyd  to  the  hospital,  but  he 
died  on  the  way. 


200  TVriCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  I  was  also  taken  to  the  hospital,  and  after  my  wounds  were  dressed 
I  came  here  to  the  prison. 

"  This  is  the  closest  call  I  ever  had.  If  it  had  not  been  for  my  collar 
I  should  have  been  a  goner.  Hodge  must  have  been  a  regular  fiend. 
I  never  saw  a  fellow  slash  so." 

Floyd  Johnson,  the  murdered  man,  was  a  son  of  Minor  Johnson,  a 
glassworker,  formerly  a  resident  of  Lancaster.  The  boy  had  been  an 
outcast  for  many  years  because  of  the  fact  that  his  parents  have  not 
lived  together.  He  was  the  nephew  of  Charles  Valentine,  the  horse- 
man of  this  city,  and  has  an  aunt,  Mrs.  H.  L.  Spencer,  who  lives  at 
132  Mohawk  street. 

Yesterday  afternoon  his  aunt,  Mrs.  Valentine  of  East  Main  street, 
claimed  the  body  of  the  murdered  man  and  ordered  its  removal  from 
the  morgue. 

Previous  to  its  removal  Coroner  Charles  Lindsay  and  Dr.  Charles 
Dennis  held  an  autopsy.  Three  wounds  were  found  upon  the  body,  one 
on  the  right  elbow,  one  on  the  left  ear  and  one  on  the  left  side  of  the 
neck.    The  last  wound  was  the  cause  of  his  death. 

The  knife  blade,  which  was  about  3^-  inches  in  length,  severed  the 
jugular  vein  and  penetrated  the  lung,  causing  a  hemorrhage.  An  inquest 
will  be  held  as  soon  as  all  the  witnesses  to  the  tragedy  can  be  summoned. 
—  H.  F.  H.,  in  Ohio  State  Journal 

Editor's  Note.  This  story  was  one  of  the  big  beats  of  the  year.  It  fol- 
lowed close  upon  the  heels  of  the  full  account  of  the  brawl  in  the  Palace  Cafe, 
which  was  fully  covered  in  the  newspapers.  Three  police  reporters  jumped  to 
the  conclusion  that  young  Hodge  was  guilty  of  deliberate  murder.  That  con- 
viction colored  all  their  stories.  The  boy  had  really  been  placed  on  trial  by  the 
newspapers,  with  public  sentiment  against  him.  The  arrival  of  the  father  one 
Saturday  afternoon  was  entirely  overlooked,  nor  did  an  inkling  of  his  inter- 
view with  his  son  get  to  the  ears  of  seasoned  newspaper  men  eager  for  a  Sun- 
day story.  By  accident  a  tip  was  received  by  a  younger  man,  who  interviewed 
Mr.  Hodge  and  Charles  Pierce  and  got  a  full  story.  It  was  a  first  intimation 
that  the  boy  drew  a  knife  in  self-defense.  Later  he  was  acquitted  of  the  charge 
of  murder  and  set  free.  The  publicity  given  the  Palace  Caf^,  open  after  mid- 
night in  defiance  to  a  city  ordinance,  brought  a  rigid  enforcement  of  the  law 
by  the  police  department.  The  evil  consequences  of  bad  company  and  worse 
whisky  preached  a  strong  sermon  from  the  pulpit  of  the  newspaper. 


POLICE  STORIES  20l 

SAVING  A  STUDENT  FROM  THE  PENITENTIARY 

A 

KANSAS  UNIVERSITY  FRESHMAN  TO   PRISON 

The  sudden  transition  from  being  a  freshman  in  good  standing  at  the 
University  of  Kansas  at  Lawrence  to  a  self-confessed  forger  under  sen- 
tence to  two  years  in  the  penitentiary  was  too  much  for  Lee  Smith,  nine- 
teen years  old,  as  he  sat  in  a  cell  at  the  county  jail  last  night.  He  came  to 
Kansas  City  Thursday,  forged  a  check  Friday,  and  yesterday  he  pleaded 
guilty  to  a  charge  of  forgery  before  Judge  Latshaw  and  was  sentenced. 

"Wednesday  night  I  played  basket  ball  with  the  freshman  team  in 
Robinson  Gymnasium,"  he  said.  "  Our  team  won  the  class  champion- 
ship. Thursday  morning  I  sat  in  my  room  and  figured  out  this  forgery 
scheme.  All  the  other  fellows  were  preparing  to  go  home  for  their 
Christmas  vacation.  They  had  good  clothes,  plenty  of  money,  and  talked 
about  what  they  expected  to  get  as  presents. 

"  As  I  sat  there  I  pictured  their  home-coming,  with  their  parents  and 
girl  friends  at  the  station  to  meet  them.  And  then  I  thought  about  my 
clothes.  All  I  had  was  a  thin  summer  suit.  And  my  overcoat  —  all  I 
had  was  a  raincoat. 

"  I  came  to  Kansas  City  Thursday  night  and  registered  at  the  Hotel 
Baltimore.  The  stores  were  closed  when  I  got  here.  Friday  morning 
I  went  to  the  Palace  Clothing  Company  and  bought  a  suit,  giving  a 
forged  check  for  $35  in  payment.  I  ordered  the  suit  sent  to  the  hotel. 
When  I  went  there  to  get  it  I  was  arrested. 

"And  now  —  here  I  am,"  and  he  cried,  resting  his  head  on  the  bars 
in  front  of  him. 

"  I  worked  all  last  summer  in  the  harvest  fields  near  my  home  in 
Solomon,  Kans.,  to  get  to  go  to  the  university,"  he  continued  after  a  while, 
"  I  made  just  enough  money  to  put  me  through  school  by  working  on  the 
side.  I  did  n't  have  money  for  clothes,  and  I  wanted  good  ones  so  bad. 
If  ever  I  get  out  of  this  place  I  '11  wear  overalls  to  school  if  necessary. 

"  And  my  mother  —  "  he  gripped  the  bars  tightly,  his  lips  quivering. 
—  Kansas  City  Star 


202  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

B 

PLEAD   FOR   KANSAS  UNIVERSITY  FORGER 

It  was  manifested  to  Judge  Latshaw  yesterday  that  the  Christmas  spirit 
is  abroad  in  Kansas  City.  Before  the  judge  sat  down  to  breakfast  yes- 
terday morning  his  telephone  bell  rang.  Some  person  at  the  other  end 
of  the  line  had  seen  an  article  in  the  Star  about  Lee  Smith,  1 9  years  old, 
a  freshman  at  the  University  of  Kansas,  who  had  been  arrested  for  forg- 
ing a  check  for  $35  Saturday  on  the  Palace  Clothing  Company.  The  boy 
was  sentenced  to  two  years  in  prison.  His  e.xcuse  was  that  he  envied 
the  other  fellows  who  had  money  and  were  going  home  for  Christmas. 

The  person  at  the  other  end  of  Judge  Latshaw's  telephone  had  read 
about  Smith  and  wanted  to  know  if  the  judge  was  n't  going  to  show 
some  leniency.  The  judge  said  he  would  think  it  over.  But  he  did  n't 
get  time  to  think  it  over.  The  telephone  bell  rang  again  and  kept  it  up 
at  frequent  intervals  all  day.  The  judge  received  his  last  appeal  for 
clemency  for  Lee  Smith  about  11.29  o'clock  last  night. 

This  morning  Judge  Latshaw  arose  early  to  escape  the  telephone. 
But  he  found  a  delegation  of  Kansas  LTniversity  students  waiting  for  him 
when  he  went  to  the  Criminal  Court  Building.  After  he  had  finished 
with  them  he  was  told  that  money  and  letters  offering  aid  had  been  sent 
the  boy  by  numerous  Kansas  citizens.  Judge  Latshaw  also  had  to  receive 
more  visitors  who  wanted  to  talk  about  the  case.  Among  them  were 
W.  O.  Steen  of  Abilene,  Kans.,  superintendent  of  schools  of  Dickinson 
County,  and  W.  J.  Micky,  superintendent  of  schools  of  Solomon,  Kans. ; 
G.  O.  Foster,  registrar  of  the  University  of  Kansas,  and  C.  W.  Smith, 
a  retired  capitalist  of  Lawrence. 

When  Henry  A.  Guettel  of  the  Palace  Clothing  Company  called  up 
Judge  Latshaw  to  ask  that  the  boy  be  paroled,  the  judge  almost  decided. 
A  representative  of  the  Women's  Council  of  Clubs,  who  did  n't  give  her 
name,  exhorted  the  judge,  and  he  gave  in. 

"  I  will  probably  parole  Smith  in  a  week  or  ten  days,"  he  said.  "  I 
appreciate  the  spirit  that  has  prompted  all  these  people  to  ask  for  clem- 
ency. It  is  a  sign  of  the  Christmas  spirit  at  work.  But  the  boy  has  done 
wrong,  premeditated  wrong,  and  it  will  be  better  for  him  if  he  is  punished." 

Meanwhile  Smith,  penitent,  will  have  to  spend  Christmas  Day  in  jail. 
—  Kansas  City  Times 


POLICE  STORIES  203 


SCORES  PLEAD  FOR  BOY  FORGER 

The  proverbial  one  touch  of  nature  is  causing  Judge  Latshaw's  Christ- 
mas mail  to  be  flooded  with  pleas  of  mercy  for  Lee  Smith,  the  University 
of  Kansas  freshman  sentenced  to  two  years  in  the  penitentiary  by  Judge 
Latshaw  for  forging  a  check.  A  physician  in  a  little  town  in  western 
Kansas  wrote : 

Just  read  in  Sunday's  Star  of  the  conviction  of  Lee  Smith  for  forgery  and  I 
want  to  say  my  heart  goes  out  to  that  boy.  I  went  through  the  same  struggle  to 
get  my  education  and  I  know  it  is  not  so  unusual  that  the  boy  fell  in  the  struggle. 
I  have  a  son  at  the  same  school  and  I  am  asking  you  to  do  with  Lee  Smith  as  I 
would  for  my  own  son  under  the  same  circumstances.  I  will  gladly  pay  the  $35 
for  the  boy  if  he  can  only  be  paroled  and  given  one  more  chance.  If  this  will 
help,  command  me. 

Another  man,   a  professor  at  the  University  of   Kansas,  wrote  to 

Judge  Latshaw.    He  said  in  part : 

I  am  the  father  of  three  boys,  all  in  school  here  and  two  of  them  in  the  uni- 
versity. I  think  I  understand  a  little  of  the  temptations  for  the  boy  who  has  little 
or  no  spending  money.  The  greatest  men,  judge,  as  you  know,  have  never  been 
stronger  than  at  their  weakest  moment,  and  should  they  have  been  tempted  at 
that  moment,  how  many  would  have  become  great .''  Again  in  the  name  of  a  father 
of  boys,  I  plead  for  leniency  for  this  —  to  me  —  unknown  boy. 

A  Kansas  City  broker,  an  old  man,  whose  years  in  college  are  almost 
forgotten,  wrote : 

Nothing  I  have  read  for  years  has  awakened  my  sympathy  as  has  the  inclosed 
clipping  from  the  Star.  I  believe  there  will  be  thousands  of  sad  hearts  today, 
after  reading  the  story.  Coming  as  it  does  at  Christmas,  and  the  home-coming  of 
so  many  college  students,  it  is  doubly  saddening. 

I  hope  you  will  not  consider  this  letter  an  intrusion,  but  can  see  your  way 
clear,  with  favor  to  yourself  and  respect  for  the  law,  to  give  this  young  man 
another  chance. 

A  mother  wrote : 

Can't  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  parole  this  boy  for  his  mother's  sake .''  Give 
him  one  chance  for  his  and  for  the  sake  of  a  mother  of  a  boy  of  20. 

A  petition  signed  by  two  hundred  business  men  and  residents  of  Sol- 
omon, Kans.,  was  received  by  special  delivery  last  night  by  Judge  Latshaw, 
earnestly  recommending  the  parole  of  Lee  Smith  and  asking  especially 
that  he  be  allowed  to  spend  Christmas  at  home.    The  signers  guaranteed 


204  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

responsibility  for  his  care  and  conduct  during  his  release.  Judge  Latshaw 
said  he  probably  would  parole  him  early  next  week,  but  did  not  think  it 
advisable  to  let  him  go  this  week,  indicating  that  Lee  Smith  would  spend 
Christmas  Day  in  jail. 

Judge  Latshaw  received  nearly  a  hundred  Christmas  postal  cards,  most 
of  them  with  brief  pleas  for  Lee  Smith.  The  judge  says  he  probably 
will  parole  Smith  if  he  returns  to  school,  but  he  must  spend  Christmas 
in  jail.  —  Kansas  City  Star 

Editor's  Note.  This  is  a  capital  illustration  of  a  series  of  well-constructed 
follow-up  stories ;  but  it  is  a  better  example  of  how  a  newspaper  can  influence 
the  public  mind  and  arouse  sympathy  for  a  youth  who  has  yielded  to  temptation, 
but  who  is  not  a  deliberate  felon.  The  first  story  is  not  overwrought,  but 
arouses  sympathy,  particularly  in  the  concluding  paragraph,  by  the  elimination 
of  the  superfluous  and  the  sentimental.  The  entire  story  is  intensely  dramatic. 
The  best  evidence  that  the  original  narrative  moved  readers  of  the  Times  and 
Star  to  a  generous  impulse  to  help  the  unfortunate  freshman  is  contained 
within  the  story  ''  Plead  for  Kansas  University  Forger,"  which  follows ;  while 
the  publication  of  the  letters  in  the  third  story  and  Judge  Latshaw's  determina- 
tion to  parole  young  Smith  because  of  the  importunity  of  new-found  friends, 
round  out  the  experience  to  a  satisfying  conclusion.  Young  Smith  returned  to 
college,  got  the  choice  of  a  dozen  jobs,  and  was  saved  from  the  penitentiary. 
Newspaper  publicity  made  a  man  of  him. 


CRIME  WAVE  DUE  TO   POOR  TRAINING  OF  BOYS  IN 
THE  HOMES 

Hordes  of  wild  boys  and  young  men,  products  of  faulty  home  and 
neighborhood  surroundings,  are  responsible  for  almost  all  the  crime  in 
Cleveland,  Chief  of  Police  W.  S.  Rowe  declared  yesterday  afternoon. 

The  day  of  the  notorious  crook  has  passed.  He  is  spotted  and  cannot 
engage  in  criminal  operations.  The  youthful  "  tough,"  schooled  in  a 
curriculum  of  vice,  steps  from  petty  thievery  to  graduation  into  felony 
as  a  burglar  and  a  highwayman  before  the  police  have  time  to  learn  his 
ways,  the  police  chief  contends. 

Twenty-one  highwaymen  and  twenty  burglars  have  been  arrested  in 
Cleveland  since  December  i  and  the  majority  of  them  are  under  25, 
Few  had  previous  police  records.  The  number  of  arrests  compared 
widi  crimes  committed  is  unusually  high. 


POLICE  STORIES  205 

A  20-year-old  boy  arrested  as  a  burglar  yesterday  is  cited  by  police 
as  a  type.  Police  say  he  broke  into  an  East  End  home  early  yesterday 
and  stole  a  revolver,  a  fountain  pen  and  $16. 

Detective  Samuel  Ruddock  arrested  the  youth  in  a  downtown  shop. 
The  revolver,  taken  from  the  home,  led  to  his  detection,  according  to  police. 
Detectives  say  the  young  man  confessed  after  five  hours  of  questioning. 

This  is  the  city's  crime  problem,  according  to  Chief  Rowe.  Judge 
William  B.  Beebe,  occupying  the  bench  in  the  criminal  branch  of  munic- 
ipal court,  corroborates  the  veteran  police  official.  Judge  Beebe  and 
Chief  Rowe  informally  discussed  the  problem  yesterday  afternoon. 

"  The  hand  that  showed  through  the  assault  by  burglars  on  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tom  L.  Sidlo  in  their  home  at  12415  Forest  Grove  avenue  early 
Tuesday  morning  was  not  a  hand  trained  in  crime,"  said  Chief  Rowe. 

"  The  Sidlo  burglars  were  amateurs.  They  defied  all  traditions  of  the 
burglar's  code.  They  assaulted  maliciously  and  in  a  deadly  spirit.  They 
deserve  the  strictest  punishment  that  can  be  given.  And  they  were  young 
men,  probably  wholly  unknown  to  police  through  any  previous  act." 

Judge  Beebe  remarks  on  the  character  of  prisoners  who  pass  before 
him  daily  in  criminal  court.  He  sees  defiant  youths  come  into  court  for 
the  first  time  on  charges  of  robbery  and  burglary.  There  seems  to  be 
something  lacking  in  their  natures,  officials  say,  for  they  take  arrest  coolly 
and  indifferently. 

These  facts.  Chief  Rowe  says,  go  far  toward  explaining  the  extraordi- 
nary prevalence  of  crimes  of  violence  despite  efficiency  and  activity  of 
the  police  department. 

Figures  showed  that  106  crimes  of  violence,  burglaries  and  hold-ups, 
where  revolvers  and  other  weapons  were  freely  used,  occurred  in  Decem- 
ber.   Records  of  the  two  preceding  months  showed  similar  figures. 

The  police  apprehended  guilty  persons  in  an  unusual  number  of  cases. 
In  October,  November  and  December  628  persons  have  been  arrested 
on  felony  charges.  In  400  of  these  cases  guilty  persons  have  been  bound 
over  to  the  common  pleas  court,  and  most  of  them  have  received  the 
punishment  the  law  provides. 

Never  before.  Chief  Rowe  declares,  have  police  been  arresting  so  many 
persons  or  have  they  been  so  successful  in  maintaining  so  high  an  average 
of  arrests  in  proportion  to  crimes  committed.  Justice,  the  chief  says, 
overtakes  the  individual  burglars,  highwaymen  and  other  crooks,  but 
crime  goes  on. 


2o6  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  New  criminals  come  on  so  rapidly  from  ilic  ranks  of  boys  and  young 
men  that  detectives  and  policemen  do  not  have  a  chance  to  know  them," 
said  Chief  Rowe. 

"  Crime  crops  out  in  all  parts  of  the  city.  The  neighborhood  '  tough  ' 
becomes  a  burglar  and  the  '  bad  boy '  becomes  a  hold-up  man,  while  his 
parents  are  unaware  of  the  path  he  has  taken. 

"  It  is  these  unsuspected  young  crooks  who  form  the  problem  for  the 
police  department.  The  department  cannot  prevent  crime.  It  can  only 
arrest  men  who  have  committed  crimes.  But  when  almost  every  crime 
involves  a  hitherto  unknown  wrongdoer  the  task  of  police  is  complicated." 

Sentimentality  and  the  instinctive  tendency  to  sympathize  with  a  crim- 
inal is  blamed  largely  by  police  and  court  officials  for  present  crime  con- 
ditions. Police  Prosecutor  Samuel  H.  Silbert  yesterday  took  an  emphatic 
stand  deploring  forced  efforts  to  arouse  sympathy  for  every  man  who 
has  done  something  particularly  atrocious. 

"  A  robber  who  operates  with  a  revolver  and  selects  women  as  his 
victims  is  given  sympathy,  and  a  demand  goes  up  for  leniency  because 
of  the  robber's  family,"  said  Prosecutor  Silbert.  "  Emotional  persons 
time  and  again  defeat  the  ends  of  justice. 

"  A  man  who  never  had  done  anything  good  in  his  life  was  tried  for  a 
deliberate  murder  recently.  Sympathy  was  lavished  upon  him  while  he 
was  in  jail,  and  the  sentimental  attended  his  trial.  His  babies  were  drawn 
into  the  discussion  when  an  effort  was  made  to  have  him  paroled  from 
the  penitentiary. 

"Another  man  who  committed  more  than  loo  burglaries  by  his  own 
confession  received  almost  universal  sympathy  under  the  plea  that  he 
stole  to  get  money  to  have  an  operation  performed  to  save  the  sight  of 
one  of  his  children. 

"  This  sympathy  ceased  abruptly  when  it  was  discovered  the  supposed 
eye  disease  was  merely  a  temporary  and  trivial  ailment  that  could  be 
remedied  easily  by  any  physician.  But  this  man  only  received  a  reforma- 
tory sentence  because  of  the  pressure  of  public  opinion."  —  P.  A.  Von 
Blon,  in  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer 

Editor's  Note.  This  story  is  an  excellent  example  of  how  a  newspaper 
may  become  a  corrective  agency  in  educating  the  public  mind  to  the  presence 
of  conditions  that  need  work  of  reform.  A  constructive  news  program  and  a 
reporter's  enterprise  have  secured  real  information  from  a  man  whose  opinions 
should  carry  the  weight  of  authority.  The  essence  of  the  story  is  found  in  the 
headlines.   This  statement  of  plain  facts  will  probably  do  more  to  arouse  parents 


POLICE  STORIES  207 

to  a  sense  of  their  responsibility  than  reams  of  editorial  discussion.  It  puts  the 
blame  for  a  so-called  wave  of  crime  where  it  belongs  —  on  vicious  home  sur- 
roundings and  bad  company. 

The  narrative  is  well-constructed  throughout,  and  its  citations  of  crime  are 
not  exaggerated.  The  quality  of  restraint  is  one  of  its  merits.  The  story  is  in 
line  with  the  announced  policy  of  the  Plain  Dealer  to  be  "  indefatigable  in  its 
efforts  for  the  common  good." 


QUACK  DOCTOR  BLAMED  FOR  DOUBLE  DEATH 

A  double  death  tragedy  yesterday  was  laid  to  the  door  of  a  quack  doctor. 

The  charge  was  brought  out  at  the  inquest  into  the  deaths  of  George 
Gasser  and  his  bride.  Gasser,  who  was  23,  eloped  and  wed  Sylvia  Eber- 
sold,  19  years  old,  of  1320  Turner  avenue  on  Dec.  22.  The  two  were 
found  dead  from  poison,  as  a  result  of  a  suicide  pact,  in  a  shed  at  the  rear 
of  the  Gasser  residence  at  1309  South  Sawyer  avenue  on  Sunday. 

"  I  don't  believe  there  was  a  thing  the  matter  with  this  young  man's 
health,"  testified  George  Ebersold,  the  girl's  father.  "  I  believe  he  was 
a  victim  of  some  quack  doctor.  This  doctor  told  him  he  would  die  unless 
he  got  married.  He  took  the  step  and  then  woke  to  the  realization  that 
he  was  working  three  days  a  week  and  had  no  permanent  home  of  his 
own  for  his  wife." 

"  What  makes  you  think  it  was  a  quack  doctor  ? "  asked  Deputy 
Coroner  Adolph  Herrmann. 

"  No  other  kind  of  a  doctor  would  give  such  advice,"  the  witness  replied. 

The  jury  returned  a  verdict  that  Gasser  committed  suicide  while  de- 
spondent over  financial  affairs  and  that  the  girl  died  of  poison  self- 
administered  in  a  suicide  pact. 

"  My  daughter  had  told  me  they  were  to  be  married,"  Mr.  Ebersold 
continued.  "  Her  mother  advised  her  to  wait,  saying  she  did  not  have 
the  necessary  clothing  on  hand ;  that  it  would  be  better  to  marry  in  the 
spring.  The  girl  replied  that  Gasser  had  told  her  that  he  had  been  to  a 
doctor  and  that  the  latter  told  him  there  was  something  wrong  with  him 
and  that  he  would  die  in  a  few  months  unless  he  married.  He  had  no 
means  for  marriage ;  the  poor  lad  did  n't  know  what  to  do." 

Mrs.  Margaret  Gasser  told  of  finding  the  bodies  in  the  shed  with 
four  bottles  that  had  contained  poison  near  them. 

"  My  boy's  head  lay  on  Sylvia's  breast,"  she  wept.  "  I  ran  back  into 
the  house  screaming;." 


2o8  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  Do  you  know  of  any  motive  for  this  tragedy  ?  "  she  was  asked. 

"  No,  except  that  my  boy  came  to  me  once  and  said  :  '  Mamma,  I  've 
been  to  a  doctor.  He  says  there  's  something  wrong  with  my  stomach 
and  that  I  '11  die  unless  I  marry  within  three  months.'  I  asked  him  why 
he  did  n't  see  our  family  physician.  He  replied  that  he  did  n't  want  to  do 
that.  He  had  $40  or  $50.  He  complained  a  number  of  times  of  feeling 
badly,  but  I  never  supposed  he  was  sickly. 

Gasser  was  a  substitute  mail  carrier  in  the  main  post  office.  Miss 
Ebersold  worked  as  a  mail-filing  clerk  for  Sears,  Roebuck  &  Co. — 
Chicago   Tribune 

Editor's  Notf..  This  story  publislied  in  the  Chicago  Tribune  is  in  line 
with  a  vigorous  campaign  waged  by  that  newspaper  against  quack  doctors. 
Newspaper  stories  exposing  their  practices  drove  many  of  these  charlatans 
out  of  the  city  and  purged  advertising  columns  of  vicious  untruths.  It  should 
be  noticed  that  the  story  in  question  does  not  mention  the  poison  by  name,  a 
policy  adopted  by  many  newspapers  to  prevent  the  use  of  any  drug  for  suicidal 
purposes,  by  reason  of  wide  publicity  given  it.  The  conversation  of  the  mother 
gives  the  story  authenticity.  The  reporter  does  not  attempt  to  inject  a  motive 
into  the  narrative  which  is  not  clearly  evident.  Such  stories  as  these  wage 
warfare  against  the  nostrums  of  medical  fakirs,  even  though  they  deal  frankly 
with  the  immediate  facts  of  suicide. 


WOMAN'S  PICTURE   HOLDS  SUICIDE'S  DYING  GAZE 

[The  Salvation  Army  suicide  bureau  at  673  South  State  street  gives  advice 

and  aid  to  would-be  suicides.] 

With  a  woman's  picture  propped  up  where  his  last  glance  might  fall 
upon  it,  the  body  of  Samuel  Morton  was  found  in  a  gas-filled  room  at 
2848  West  Twelfth  street  yesterday. 

By  his  side  were  three  sealed  letters,  which  the  police  believe  will 
reveal  the  cause  of  his  suicide  when  they  are  opened  at  the  coroner's 
inquest  tomorrow.   The  letters  are  addressed  to : 

Miss  B.  Krichepsky,  1016  Poplar  street,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 
Joe  Dogan,  1750  West  Twelfth  street 
Mr.  Weisdorf,  132 1  Homan  avenue 

A  rebuke  from  a  woman  is  said  to  have  made  Morton  despondent. 
Whether  it  was  the  woman  in  the  picture  or  not  is  not  known. 


POLICE  STORIES  209 

"  I  understand  a  Mrs.  Wright  gave  him  a  lecture  about  something," 
said  Mrs.  Harry  Kamstock,  who  owns  the  rooming  house.  "  He  had 
lived  here  for  two  weeks." 

Friends  of  John  Backman  of  i  o  i  o  West  Lake  street  who  called  to  go 
walking  with  him  found  him  dead  in  bed  with  one  gas  jet  open.  His 
friends  said  that  he  had  not  appeared  despondent  and  they  were  unable 
to  tell  whether  his  death  was  accidental  or  suicide. —  Chicago  Herald 

Editor's  Note.  No  effort  has  been  made  in  this  story  to  play  up  a  motive 
in  the  lead.  The  reporter  only  expresses  a  conjecture  and  that  is  based  upon 
the  testimony  of  the  owner  of  the  rooming  house.  Particular  attention  is  called 
to  the  insertion  of  the  paragraph  in  brackets  immediately  under  the  headline. 
Undoubtedly  this  brief  announcement  has  saved  many  despondent  people 
from  self-destruction. 


FALLS  ON   WALKS  HURT   FOUR   MORE  POLICEMEN 

[Citizens  will  aid  in  the  fight  for  safer  sidewalks  by  reporting  defective  or 
uncleaned  walks  to  their  ward  superintendent  or  alderman.] 

Four  more  policemen  were  injured  so  seriously  that  they  won't  be  able 
to  resume  work  for  several  days,  and  two  more  private  citizens  were  sent 
to  hospitals  yesterday  as  a  day's  toll  exacted  by  snow  and  ice  covered 
sidewalks. 

Here  is  the  list  of  yesterday's  victims  reported  to  the  police,  bringing  the 
number  of  persons  injured  by  falls  on  icy  walks  since  Dec.  18  to  fifty-five : 

Thomas  Burke,  patrolman,  Cragin  station  ;  right  foot  sprained  by  fall 
at  Cicero  and  Grand  avenues  ;  taken  to  his  residence,  4832  Walton  street. 

James  Hefferman,  iron  worker,  of  226  North  Fairfield  avenue;  fell 
in  Madison  street,  50  feet  west  of  Francisco  avenue;  muscles  in  back 
sprained  ;  taken  to  county  hospital. 

John  M.  Johnson,  policeman,  Shakespeare  avenue  station ;  back  of 
head  cut  and  bruised  by  fall  at  the  northwest  corner  of  Shakespeare  and 
California  avenues;  taken  to  his  residence,  326  North  Irving  avenue. 

William  Henry  Lomax,  3218  Forest  avenue;  fell  in  front  of  3034 
South  State  street ;  badly  cut  above  left  eye  ;  taken  to  Provident  Hospital. 

Thomas  Malloy,  patrolman.  Stockyards  station  ;  right  ankle  sprained 
by  fall  in  front  of  5319  Wentworth  avenue  ;  taken  to  his  residence,  5155 
Aberdeen  street. 


2IO  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Hugh  McCullough,  patrolman,  Stockyards  station ;  back  wrenched 
and  left  hip  and  left  shoulder  bruised  by  fall  at  southeast  comer  of  Fifty- 
fourth  and  Halsted  street;  taken  to  his  residence,  736  West  Fifty-fourth 
place. 

All  except  one  of  the  policemen  were  traveling  their  "  beats  "  at  the 
time  they  recived  their  injuries.  Scarcely  a  day  goes  by  that  the  name 
of  one  or  more  policemen  is  not  included  in  the  list  of  icy  sidewalk 
accidents. —  Chicago  Herald 

Editor's  Note.  When  other  means  fail,  the  newspaper  may  still  do  con- 
structive work  in  making  a  city  a  better  place  in  which  to  live.  Community 
service  is  one  of  the  goals  of  the  new  journalism.  This  may  be  illustrated  by 
the  foregoing  story  of  the  injuries  received  on  the  icy  pavement  of  Chicago. 
Evidendy  the  proper  city  officials  had  not  done  their  duty.  So  publicity  was 
resorted  to  as  a  leverage  of  reform.  The  introductory  note  tells  its  own  story. 
It  is  interesUng  to  know  that  the  Herald stonts  cleaned  the  streets  and  reduced 
the  list  of  the  injured. 


IX 

GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS 

The  sporting  extra,  issued  directly  after  the  close  of  a  bout,  game 
or  race,  carries  a  brief,  disjointed  story  of  the  afternoon's  events. 
It  is  published  for  a  class  of  readers  who  demand  facts  speedily  told. 
They  want  the  score,  the  result,  not  high-flown  description.  To 
write  successfully  for  this  type  of  paper  requires  technical  knowl- 
edge of  the  event  and  accuracy,  painstaking  accuracy.  Readers 
who  buy  the  "  pink  sheet  "  generally  know  some  of  the  fine  points 
of  sporting  events  ;  they  are  quick  to  detect  carelessness  and  an 
unfamiliarity  with  plays  and  players.  Every  newspaper,  therefore, 
is  compelled  to  employ  specialists  well  versed  in  the  particular 
contests  and  games  they  would  report.  In  a  peculiar  sense  the 
sports  page  is  the  handiwork  of  experts,  a  thing  not  so  true  of 
other  sections  of  the  newspaper. 

Opportunity  for  picturesque  writing  of  athletic  happenings  does 
find  a  place  in  the  newspaper,  however,  despite  the  wide  popularity 
of  the  sporting  extra.  The  morning  paper  accepts  such  an  oppor- 
tunity, following  an  afternoon  contest.  First,  there  must  be  a  tech- 
nical story  of  the  game  told  in  detail,  then  an  atmosphere  story  — 
the  bleachers,  the  surging  crowds,  flaunting  flags,  cheering  throngs, 
sidelights  and  incidents — or  perhaps  a  bit  of  local  color  or  a  spec- 
tacular run  made  by  the  day's  hero.  Here  is  opportunity  for  elab- 
oration and  more  leisurely  methods.  In  the  "  pink,"  "  seven  yards 
through  tackle  "  was  sufficient ;  the  next  morning  we  read,  "Horr 
squirmed  through  a  small  hole  at  tackle  and  carried  three  muddy 
Tigers  seven  yards  down  the  field  before  he  was  downed." 

Many  people  who  read  Rex  Beach's  classic  of  the  Jeffries- 
Johnson  fight  would  not  have  relished  it  in  a  sporting  extra  the 
night  after  the  bout.  What  they  wanted  to  know  then  was : 
'"  Who  won  .?  "  "In  what  round  .?  "  "  Who  scored  the  first  knock- 
out?"   "Who  drew  first  blood.?"     Answers  to  these  questions 


212  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

are  not  found  instantly  in  Beach's  story.  It  merely  supplements 
a  general  sports  story  that  has  gone  before.  The  followers  of 
pugilism  read  the  news  story  by  an  expert  first,  say  by  W,  W. 
Naughton,  who  in  simple  phrasing  told  how  the  negro  picked 
Jeffries  up  in  the  fourth  round  and  shook  him  as  he  would  an 
old  man. 

In  a  general  way  football,  track,  and  rowing  attract  a  more  cul- 
tured following,  a  college  clientele,  for  these  are  essentially  college 
sports.  Baseball  attracts  every  type  of  reader ;  interest  runs  from 
the  local  game  and  the  home  team  to  the  world's  championship 
series.  Pugilism  is  the  only  sport  that  attracts  men  only,  and 
generally  men  of  a  distinct  class.  Tennis  is  beginning  to  take  a 
larger  place  in  the  newspaper. 

Expert  knowledge  is  necessary  on  the  part  of  the  men  who 
would  treat  adequately  these  sport  events  ;  but  the  varying  types 
of  readers  to  be  served  have  placed  a  new  insistence  on  stories  with 
a  general  appeal,  vivid  with  atmosphere,  and  thoroughly  dramatic 
from  start  to  finish.  This  requires  literary  art  of  a  high  order. 
Dullness  has  no  place  on  the  sporting  page,  but  the  search  for 
novelty  does  not  warrant  a  superabundance  of  vulgar  slang  and 
tawdry  humor. 

BRICKLEY'S  KICKS  WIN   FOR  HARVARD 

Cambridge,  Mass.,  Nov.  22. —  He  is  a  short,  chunky  youngster  of 
2 1  summers.  His  black  hair  is  curly,  and  there  is  always  a  smile  on  his 
boyish  face.  He  has  a  nerve  of  chilled  steel,  and  is  so  cool  that  he  could 
face  the  jaws  of  destruction  without  a  quiver.  This  is  Charley  Brickley, 
whose  name  was  engraved  in  football  history  at  Soldiers  Field  this  after- 
noon as  one  of  the  greatest  individual  gridiron  heroes  who  ever  wore 
the  flaming  crimson  of  Harvard.  Brickley  was  the  whole  Harvard  team 
against  Yale  this  afternoon,  and  with  his  talented  toe  he  booted  the 
pigskin  over  Eli's  goal  post  five  times,  scoring  all  the  points,  which 
buried  the  Blue  in  a  15  to  5  defeat. 

The  "  newsies  "  here  tonight  are  not  screaming  about  Harvard  triumph. 
They  are  yelling  "  Wuxtra  1  Wuxtra !  All  about  the  New  Haven  Wreck  1  " 
The  New  Haven  Wreck  is  Capt.  Ketcham's  team,  exhausted,  played  out 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS  213 

to  the  last  ounce  of  human  strength,  and  beaten  decisively  by  Percy 
Haughton's  big  Crimson  team,  which  showed  itself  to  be  one  of  the  best 
drilled  football  machines  which  ever  trod  on  a  gridiron. 

"  Fair  Harvard,"  all  her  sons,  young  and  old,  are  delirious  with  joy 
tonight.  It  is  the  first  time  Harvard  has  ever  defeated  Yale  in  the  huge 
Greek  stadium  and  it  is  the  first  time  since  way  back  in  the  gray  past  of 
1875  that  Harvard  has  ever  defeated  Yale  two  years  in  succession.  Arm 
in  arm  Harvard  parades  the  streets  of  Boston  town ;  they  crowd  the 
hotels  and  restaurants ;  they  jam  the  theaters,  and  create  the  greatest 
turmoil  this  city  has  known  for  years. 

Yale,  with  all  its  fighting  spirit,  all  its  grit,  and  bulldog  tenacity,  was 
no  match  for  Harvard.  Guernsey  kicked  one  field  goal,  and  O'Brien  of 
Harvard  made  a  stupid  play,  which  scored  a  safety  against  his  own  team. 

The  field  goal  of  three  points  and  the  safety  of  two  points  was  the 
total  of  Yale's  effort  against  this  irrepressible  eleven.  Perhaps  never 
before  on  a  college  gridiron  has  anything  ever  been  seen  like  Brickley's 
work  this  afternoon.  Wisely,  the  Crimson  team  had  been  constructed 
around  this  marvelous  drop  kicker.  With  a  snappy  aggressiveness  which 
would  not  be  denied,  Harvard  rushed  the  ball  within  striking  distance  of 
the  Eli  goal.  Then  they  called  on  Brickley.  He  booted  over  four  goals 
from  the  field  and  kicked  one  from  placement,  and  one  of  the  marvelous 
incidents  of  the  day  was  that  Brickley  tried  another  kick  from  place- 
ment. One  was  on  the  45-yard  line,  and  he  missed.  How  he  missed  it 
no  one  knows. 

The  game  was  one  of  the  most  picturesque  football  spectacles  ever 
seen  in  this  country.  More  than  44,000  people  jammed  the  colossal 
cement  amphitheater.  A  day  as  warm  as  an  early  September  afternoon, 
a  gleaming  sun  and  a  cloudless  sky  made  a  perfect  day  for  the  game. 
All  the  girlish  beauty  of  the  land  mingled  with  the  student  thousands 
who  crowded  tier  upon  tier  in  the  great  colosseum. 

When  the  Yale  rush  was  smothered,  when  Charley  Brickley  had  made 
his  last  plunge,  and  when  the  last  fatigued  Eli  warrior  limped  away  from 
the  howling  pandemonium  which  reigned  on  Soldiers  Field,  the  big  copper 
disk  of  the  November  sun,  like  a  great  splash  of  crimson  color,  dipped 
from  behind  the  horizon  back  of  the  serpentlike  Charles  River.  The 
crimson  rays  cast  a  shadow  over  the  field.  The  shadow  from  the  goal 
posts  fell  upon  the  soft  green  turf  in  the  shape  of  a  huge  letter  "  H." 
Truly  it  was  Harvard's  day.    Then  came  the  outburst  of  song : 


-M4  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

See  where  tlie  Crimson  banners  fly. 

Hark  to  the  sound  of  trampling  feet, 
There  is  a  host  approaching  nigh, 

Harvard  is  marching  up  the  street. 

It  rang  out  like  a  roar  of  thunder.  The  strains  of  the  band  were  lost. 
The  raucous  outburst  of  jubilant  students,  the  tumult,  and  the  shouting 
of  "  grads  "  will  never  be  forgotten  in  football  annals.  Again  the  deep 
bass  song  of  happy  young  men  rolled  and  echoed  across  the  stadium : 

The  sun  will  set  in  Crimson, 
As  the  sun  has  set  before, 
For  this  is  Harvard's  day. 

Best  of  all,  it  was  a  great  football  game.  There  was  plenty  of  rush- 
ing, plenty  of  punting,  dazzling  end-runs  and  spectacular  drop-kicking. 
When  the  first  half  ended  the  score  was  6  to  5  in  Harvard's  favor.  Up 
to  that  time  it  was  anybody's  game. 

In  the  first  period  Harvard  had  shown  that  their  team  could  score  at 
any  time  they  could  bring  the  ball  near  enough  to  Yale's  goal  to  give 
Brickley  a  chance  to  kick.  In  the  second  period  Yale  awoke  to  an  out- 
burst of  football  that  carried  Harvard  off  its  feet.  The  Yale  line  rose  as 
one  man  and  pushed  back  the  heavy  Crimson  forwards.  The  Eli  backs 
hurled  themselves  into  the  fray  with  undeniable  intensity. 

Eor  once  Harvard  was  slipping.  Yale,  in  the  heat  and  fury  of  the 
strife,  was  going  ahead  with  herculean  strength.  The  pounding  and  the 
punching  at  the  Harvard  line  had  the  latter  groggy  when  the  first 
half  ended. 

The  ten  minutes'  intermission  was  just  what  Harvard  needed.  The 
bruised  and  battered  line  had  time  to  collect  its  wits.  And  when  the 
third  period  came  Yale  found  that  in  that  turbulent  second  period  the 
team  had  shot  its  bolt. 

No  team  ever  fought  more  fiercely  or  more  earnestly  than  Yale  did. 
The  Elis  knew  they  had  a  chance,  and  they  were  making  the  most  of  it, 
but  they  tried  so  hard  in  that  second  period,  when  their  proud  march 
toward  triumph  was  interrupted  by  intermission,  that  they  were  about 
tired  out.  With  gameness  and  undying  nerve  they  fought  it  out  to  the 
end.  They  struggled  like  madmen  to  break  through  and  smother 
Brickley  as  he  made  his  kicks. 

Stubborn  to  the  last  degree,  the  Harvard  defense  wound  itself  around 
the  talented   Brickley  so   compactly  that  no  one  could   get  near   him. 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS  215 

Surrounded  by  the  sturdy  wall  of  Crimson  players,  Brickley  was  as  safe 
from  interference  as  if  he  had  been  in  a  safety  deposit  vault. 

Brickley  kicking  his  field  goals  was  a  picture.  As  cool  as  an  arctic 
winter,  he  was  at  all  times.  He  invariably  chose  a  smooth  place  on  the 
lawnlike  gridiron.  He  held  the  ball  in  his  hands  and  his  keen  blue 
eyes  measured  the  distance  perfectly.  He  waited  and  waited.  To  the 
crowd  in  the  Yale  stands  it  seemed  like  ages.  No  hurry  or  flurry, 
no  nervousness,  Brickley's  mind  was  on  his  task.  He  took  his  own 
sweet  time  and  smiled  at  the  Yale  players  as  they  battled  to  get  at 
him.  Not  a  kick  was  blocked,  as  a  defense  had  been  built  around 
the  Crimson  kicker  that  could  not  be  broken.  His  unerring  toe  always 
caught  the  ball  right  which  he  sent  every  time  spinning  like  a  top  over 
the  crossbar. 

Except  for  Yale's  game  rally  in  the  second  period  the  Blue  was  out- 
played by  a  far  superior  team.  But  it  was  not  beaten  until  the  last  min- 
ute, and  Harvard  had  to  watch  the  Yale  players  every  second.  Alexander 
Wilson  was  threatening  to  break  loose,  and  Martin,  the  center  rush,  and 
Avery,  the  plucky  Yale  end,  were  forever  smashing  to  swing  through  in 
a  way  that  had  Harvard  scared. 

Ketcham,  with  fierce  aggressiveness  was  playing  the  game  of  his  life ; 
he  played  so  hard  that  he  was  inexcusably  rough  and  twice  Referee 
Langford  had  to  warn  the  Yale  captain.  Once  Ketcham  was  so  bad 
that  Yale  was  penalized  1 5  yards,  and  this  penalty  put  Harvard  in  posi- 
tion to  have  Brickley  kick  his  first  field  goal. 

In  the  third  period  Yale  became  wobbling  in  the  face  of  the  Crimson 
assault.  Two  more  field  goals  in  that  period  put  Harvard  on  easy  street. 
It  was  not  until  then  that  the  hope  of  the  Yale  crowd  began  to  fade. 
The  great  horde  of  Yale  men  in  the  east  stand  stood  up  and  with 
bared  heads  broke  into  that  impressive  college  chant. 

With  tremendous  volume  the  song  rolled  over  the  field.  "  For  God, 
for  Country,  and  for  Yale." 

That  was  the  finish.  The  fast  tiring  players  on  the  field  heard  it,  it 
rang  in  their  ears,  their  fatigue  was  forgotten,  once  again  they  braced 
against  the  Crimson,  and  they  tried  for  all  they  were  worth.  But  it  was 
too  late ;  they  could  n't  stop  the  Harvard  rushes  and  hold  their  own 
in  punting,  and  they  could  not  get  at  Brickley. 

Brickley  was  everywhere.  When  every  scrimmage  unraveled  itself  on 
the  gridiron  and  a  Yale  man  came  out  of  the  heap  he  found  himself 


2i6  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

looking  at  Brickley.  Brickley  was  wonderful  on  the  defense  and  tore 
through  time  and  again  and  stopped  the  Yale  backs. 

He  intercepted  forward  passes  with  uncanny  ease.  Football  seemed 
second  nature  to  him.  He  knew  where  every  Yale  play  was  going  and 
was  always  in  the  way.  Yale  was  n't  fighting  a  football  team.  They  were 
gamely  carrying  on  a  hopeless  fight  against  one  man.  Ketcham  and 
Warren  and  Knowles  tackled  him  and  buried  his  nose  in  the  grass.  They 
hurled  him  down  with  fury,  but  they  couldn't  hurt  him.  Every  time 
Brickley  came  up  smiling.  When  they  threw  him  he  bounded  up  again 
as  if  on  springs.  He  would  n't  quit.  He  took  his  medicine  like  a  soldier 
and  was  always  ready  to  make  a  drop-kick  when  called  upon. 

Most  of  Harvard's  game  was  Brickley.  It  was  Brickley  this  and 
Brickley  that,  and  Brickley  the  other  thing.  No  man  had  ever  meant 
quite  so  much  to  a  football  team.  yVn  irresistible,  irrepressive  terror  was 
Brickley.  And  yet  it  was  the  wonderfully  well-drilled  Harvard  machine 
that  made  it  possible  for  the  Harvard  wonder  to  beat  Yale  single-handed  — 
or,  rather,  single-footed.  It  was  a  Harvard  team  perfectly  taught  in  the 
fundamentals  of  football  that  kept  the  enemy  away  while  he  kicked  goal 
after  goal,  each  one  of  which  meant  a  deeper  humiliation  for  Yale. 

This  Harvard  team  made  no  mistakes.  It  handled  the  ball  without  a 
muff.  It  carried  its  campaign  through  without  an  error.  Another  sur- 
prise of  Harvard's  game  was  the  punting  of  Eddy  Mahan.  I'Yom  the 
start  he  had  the  edge  on  Knowles  of  Yale.  His  kicks  were  high  and 
far,  and  the  Harvard  ends  were  down  under  them  like  rockets.  Wilson 
got  few  chances  to  run  back  punts.  Harvard's  ends  outplayed  and  out- 
generaled the  Blue  wings  from  the  start. 

Mahan  caught  Knowles'  first  punt  after  the  kick-off,  and  like  a  fright- 
ened deer  he  nished  the  ball  back  25  yards  before  Ketcham  buried  him. 
Brickley  and  Bradlee  hurled  themselves  into  the  line,  but  found  it  stiff. 
Then  Mahan  kicked,  Knowles  kicked  back  and  Mahan  kicked  again 
and  Harvard  gained  on  the  kicks. 

Yale,  with  confidence  in  Knowles,  kept  on  kicking.  Mahan  early  in 
the  first-period  broke  loose  and  rushed  the  ball  back  23  yards.  Then  he 
hurled  a  forward  pass  at  O'Brien,  but  it  was  intercepted.  It  was  third 
down,  so  Brickley,  with  a  nerve  that  must  be  reckoned  with,  tried  a 
drop-kick  from  the  50-yard  line  and  it  failed.    No  wonder. 

Logan  mixed  another  forward  pass  into  the  attack  and  that  also  failed. 
Yale  got  the  ball  on  the  20-yard  line  and  Knowles  tried  a  line  plunge, 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS  217 

but  was  abruptly  halted.  Knowles  had  to  kick.  Brickley  caught  the  ball 
and  two  or  three  Yale  players  were  on  him  at  once.  Kctcham  came  tearing 
along  and  jumped  into  the  fray.  For  this  Ketcham  was  warned  and  Yale 
was  penalized  15  yards.  Mahan  then  took  the  ball  and  rushed  to  Yale's 
20-yard  line,  but  the  Yale  defense  stiffened  and  Brickley  dropped  back  to 
the  25-yard  line  and  put  over  the  field  goal.    It  was  easy  for  him. 

The  picture  which  followed  this  score  will  never  be  forgotten.  The 
whole  stand  was  on  its  feet.  Every  student  brought  forth  a  crimson 
handkerchief,  and  the  Stadium  became  a  riot  of  resplendent  color.  The 
man  behind  the  bass  drum  did  his  best  to  break  it,  but  he  could  n't.  The 
horns  blared  forth  like  a  peal  of  thunder.  The  noise  became  ear-splitting, 
and  the  roar  of  approval  of  Mr.  Brickley's  feat  became  deafening. 
Harvard  had  started.   From  that  time  they  went  on  with  renewed  energy. 

On  the  kick-off  after  this  play  the  ball  from  Guernsey's  toe  hit  the 
goal  post  and  bounded  back  on  to  the  field.  O'Brien,  the  Harvard  end, 
became  sadly  confused  in  the  excitement.  He  picked  up  the  ball  for 
some  unaccountable  reason  and  planted  it  behind  his  own  goal  line. 

There  was  a  long  wrangle  between  the  players,  and  Referee  Langford 
finally  decided  that  it  was  a  safety.  After  the  first  period,  with  the  score 
3  to  2,  the  Yale  stand  began  to  sing  "  Good  Night  Harvard,"  which  is 
the  best  college  song  that  has  been  sung  in  years,  and  maybe  Yale 
could  n't  sing  it,  too.  In  fact,  the  singing  and  cheering  at  today's  game 
by  both  sides  was  the  best  that  has  ever  been  heard  at  a  football  game. 

Shortly  after  play  was  resumed  Mahan  got  off  a  kick,  which  sailed 
over  Wilson's  head  and  netted  Harvard  about  75  yards.    It  was  a  beauty. 

Early  in  the  second  period  Knowles  punted  to  Yale's  37-yard  line, 
where  Mahan  made  a  fair  catch,  and  from  that  line  Brickley  made  a 
kick  from  placement. 

After  Mahan  had  punted  to  Wilson,  the  Yale  quarter  back  fumbled 
the  ball,  but  recovered  it  and  then  pulled  off  the  best  run  of  the  game, 
dodging  up  the  field  for  a  run  of  35  yards  and  planting  the  ball  on 
Harvard's  35-yard  line.  Knowles  and  Ainsworth  in  two  vicious  rushes 
carried  the  ball  to  the  25-yard  line.  Guernsey  dropped  back  to  the 
35-yard  line  and  kicked  a  field  goal,  and  then  it  was  Yale's  time  to  yell. 
And  they  did. 

With  renewed  encouragement  Yale  awoke  to  the  best  outburst  of 
football  of  the  game.  After  Mahan,  Brickley  and  Bradlee  had  smashed 
through  for  15  yards,  Yale  showed  a  wonderful  brace  and  took  the  ball 


2i8  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

away  from  Harvard  on  downs.  Knowlcs,  on  a  fake  kick  formation, 
made  a  pretty  run  of  25  yards  and  Yale's  chances  looked  bright. 

Ainsworth  skirted  the  end  for  15  yards,  and  Harvard  was  falling  back 
in  an  alarming  way.  Time  was  nearly  up,  and  Yale  cohorts  implored 
Guernsey  to  try  a  field  goal.  He  fell  back.  With  only  a  few  seconds  of 
time  left,  he  seemed  an  hour  getting  the  ball.  Capt.  Ketcham  patted  his 
men  on  the  back  and  told  them  to  hold  as  they  never  held  before.  A 
silence  fell  over  the  Stadium  as  Guernsey  dropped  back  to  the  35-yard 
line.  He  made  a  pretty  try  at  the  goal  but  missed  the  cros.sbar  by  a 
few  inches.    The  first  half  was  over. 

'i'he  Yale  crowds  were  in  high  spirits  between  halves,  and  began 
to  sing  "  Bulldog,  bulldog,  Wow,  Wow,  Wow  —  Eli,  Eli  Yale."  Wilson 
opened  the  third  period  with  a  15-yard  lun  through  the  line. 

Knowles  followed  this  up  with  a  break  of  30  yards  through  the 
Harvard  team,  and  then  Yale  was  through.  Harvard  came  back  like  a 
raging  storm,  and  the  Crimson  began  to  batter  down  the  Yale  backs. 
Yale  fought  gamely,  but  it  was  a  losing  fight. 

"  Red  "  Brann,  Yale's  promising  end,  was  sent  into  the  strife.  He 
began  to  tackle  like  a  fiend,  and  for  a  while  Yale  picked  up  hope. 

But  Harvard's  attack  became  overwhelming.  The  Crimson  began  to 
ride  over  them  roughshod.  Dana  at  end  for  Harvard  started  to  skirt  the 
Yale  ends,  and  they  could  n't  stop  him.  Yale  was  slipping.  Brickley 
broke  loose  on  a  plunge  through  the  line  and  went  along  on  a  revolving 
run  of  30  yards.  He  brought  the  ball  again  \vithin  kicking  distance  of 
Yale's  goal,  and  from  the  31 -yard  line  kicked  another  field  goal. 

In  the  last  period  Brickley,  Mahan  and  Dana  all  made  splendid  rushes 
and  pushed  the  Yale  line  back.  Yale  was  penalized  1 5  yards  for  holding 
in  the  line,  and  Brickley  and  Mahan  brought  the  ball  down  to  Y^ale's 
lo-yard  line.  The  Harvard  people  yelled  for  a  touchdown.  The  Crim- 
son backs  in  a  furious  attack  assaulted  the  sturdy  Blue  line,  and  it  was 
like  a  rock.    Yale  would  n't  budge. 

"  Hold  'em,"  yelled  the  Yale  stands,  and  they  were  firm.  But  Brickley 
walked  coolly  back  to  the  20-yard  line  and  booted  over  another  field  goal. 

When  the  game  was  over  Harvard  stormed  onto  the  gridiron ;  every 
student  in  Cambridge  was  there,  and  behind  the  band  the  Crimson  boys, 
frenzied  with  joy,  went  through  the  dazzling  mazes  of  the  serpentine 
dance  in  a  way  that  has  never  been  seen  before  on  Soldiers  Field.  It 
was  a  sight  never  to  be  forgotten.     F/.-ery  student  in  the  parade  threw 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS  219 

his  hat  over  the  goal  posts,  and  few  of  them  got  their  hats  back.  The 
jubilation  lasted  for  an  hour  after  the  game  and  then  the  throngs  of 
victorious  students  moved  on  to  Boston.  They  took  the  old  town  by 
storm.  The  streets  became  alive  with  roistering  young  men.  Dignity 
was  forgotten.  Boston  blue  laws  were  obliterated,  all  restraint  was  lost, 
and  at  midnight  in  street,  avenue  and  alley  Harvard's  victory  was  being 
sung  to  a  star-lit  sky. 

Way  down  Washington  street  comes  the  echo  of  a  dying  song : 

Glory,  glory  for  the  Crimson, 
For  this  is  Harvard's  day. 

It  grows  fainter  and  fainter  and  is  finally  lost,  and  then  comes  along 
a  new  horde  of  Crimson  Indians  taking  up  the  song. 

It  was  a  great  victory  for  a  great  team.  Boston's  head  aches  from 
the  noise  and  the  revelry. — •  Harry  E.  Cross,  in  the  Neiv  York  Times 

Editor's  Note.  Charley  Brickley,  a  youngster  with  a  remarkable  toe,  is 
the  hero  of  this  galloping  story  of  football  victory  plucked  by  Harvard.  The 
spirit  of  youth  runs  riot  throughout  the  narrative.  It  is  contagious,  but  every- 
where it  is  Brickley  who  brings  the  mind  wheeling  back  to  his  achievements. 
The  picture  of  him  ready  to  kick  goal  is  deeply  etched  upon  the  memory,  not 
only  of  the  spectator,  but  of  any  man  who  reads  this  vivid  description  of  a  foot- 
ball contest.  Many  colorful  sidelights  are  included  in  the  story,  the  huge  "H  " 
stenciled  by  the  goal  posts  on  the  gridiron,  as  an  example.  The  roar  of  victory, 
the  sweeping  enthusiasm  of  the  day,  and  the  sunlit  charm  of  the  afternoon  are 
all  reflected  in  this  football  classic. 


BULLDOG  AGAINST  THE  TIGER 

Princeton,  N.J.  —  A  very  savage  bulldog  and  a  lean  and  hungry 
tiger  will  come  to  grapple  in  the  heart  of  the  Princeton  jungle  at  two 
o'clock  this  afternoon,  wherefore  deep  excitement  pervades  this  usually 
placid  community.  From  Gothic  arch  and  tower  "  banners  yellow, 
glorious,  golden,  float  and  flow,"  while  beneath,  constantly  augmenting 
thousands  have  converted  historic  Nassau  street,  both  sides,  into  broad 
rivers  of  humanity,  and  the  beautiful  campus  walks  no  less  so. 

Under  the  wonderful  elms  and  catalpas  on  the  broad  lawns  of  the 
Princeton  Inn  hundreds  of  motor-car  parties  were  engaged,  lunching 
"  al-fresco  "  ;  the  hostelry  itself  was  crowded  to  the  doors,  and  so  were 
the  Nassau  Hotel,  the  students'  commons  in  University  Hall  and  the 


220  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

undergraduate  clubs  on  Prospect.  In  most  of  the  beautiful  colonial 
homes  there  were  house  parties,  and  the  many  campus  walks  were 
alive  with  color  and  animation. 

From  the  leaded  windows  of  the  collegiate  Gothic  dormitories,  Blair, 
Hall  and  Little  and  Holder  and  Patton  and  '79,  and  the  oldest  buildings, 
Withcrspoon,  Dod,  Brown,  West  College  and  Reunion,  came  the  tinkle 
of  mandolins,  the  twang  of  banjos,  bursts  of  popular  songs,  and  laughter 
and  exclamations  —  mostly  feminine,  for  be  it  known,  on  this  day  your 
"  stude  "  is  very  much  at  home  to  father,  mother  and  sister,  but  more 
especially  to  that  radiant  being  best  to  be  defined  as  ''  she." 

Everywhere  was  youth,  —  even  the  old  were  young  today,  —  youth 
and  the  joy  of  living,  on  this  crisp  November  afternoon,  with  the  sun- 
light silver  instead  of  the  gold  that  October  knew,  and  a  tang)'  breeze 
that  brought  to  all  faces  the  rich  red  blood  and  to  the  eyes  that  sparkle 
as  of  precious  gems. 

Brave,  stirring  weather  today,  weather  meet  for  deeds  of  great 
emprise  upon  Princeton's  storied  gridiron,  where  Peace  and  Moffat 
and  Lamar  and  Janeway  and  Cowan  and  Edwards  and  Cochran  and 
Ames,  Cash,  George,  Balliet,  Lea,  the  Poes  and  all  the  rest,  have  strode 
in  their  beautiful  prime  and  were  today  foregathered  to  see  how  their 
descendants  have  kept  the  faith. 

Oh,  there 's  tradition  to  this  struggle ;  today's  sights  and  sounds 
have  been  enacted  many  a  time  and  oft,  but  they  are  ever  fresh,  for  all 
that,  and  inspiring  and  beautiful  and  gallant.  The  god  of  out-of-doors 
has  displaced  the  Muses  this  day,  and  the  thrill  of  physical  encounter 
has  shelved  the  humanities.  Even  Professor  Dryasdust  felt  the  call  of 
the  pigskin  and  assumed  his  place  in  the  living  torrent  that  ebbs  and 
flows  here,  there  and  everywhere. 

Old  graduates,  young  graduates,  students,  their  wives  and  mothers, 
sweethearts,  all  were  here  resplendent  in  the  serene  blue  of  the  Connec- 
ticut seat  of  learning,  or  the  more  ardent  color  scheme  of  Old  Nassau. 
From  earliest  mom,  automobiles  of  every  make  and  size  had  been  flowing 
in  from  New  York,  Philadelphia  and  near-by  cities  with  fluttering  pennons 
of  the  rival  universities,  and  special  trains  from  everywhere  were  dis- 
embarking their  brilliant  thousands,  who  debouched  into  the  many 
tributaries  that  served  to  keep  the  main  streams   swelling. 

The  spirit  of  intercollegiate  rivalry  prevailed,  but  a  most  friendly 
spirit  withal,  for  Yale  and  Princeton  are  very  near  and  dear  enemies. 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS  221 

Enemies  today,  in  more  ways  than  one,  for  at  thie  university  traps,  the 
Eli  and  Tiger  gun  teams  vied  with  each  other  in  shattering  clay  pigeons 
this  morning ;  you  could  hear  the  clatter  of  their  guns  as  you  left  the 
train,  and  the  soccer  teams  of  the  two  universities  fought  it  out  on 
Brokaw  Field.  No  one  apparently  stopped  this  afternoon  to  ask  which 
of  the  gun  teams  shot  the  worse,  and  as  for  the  soccer  game,  well, 
your  football  throng  knows  very  little  about  soccer  and  cares  less. 

And  then  last  evening,  with  the  students  of  both  universities  seated  in 
the  gallery  and  picking  out  the  "  swell  girls  "  below,  the  glee  clubs  of 
Princeton  and  Yale  met  on  the  same  stage  and  tried  to  kill  one  another 
with  "  swipes  "  and  barber-shop  chords.  But  they  did  not  succeed  ;  they 
gathered  together  at  the  conclusion  in  all  the  glory  of  shining  shirt 
bosoms  and  swallow-tail  coats,  and  trolled  "  Bright  College  Years  "  and 
"  Old  Nassau  "  with  all  the  nerve  and  harmony  of  the  opening  numbers, 
and  the  audience,  which  evidently  had  not  suffered  a  bit,  applauded 
vociferously  and  asked  for  more. 

It  was  all  very  pleasing.  Later  in  the  evening  will  be  heard  cries  of 
''  Fresh,  fire  !  " — summons  for  freshmen  to  bring  wood  for  bonfires  — 
echoing  across  the  quadrangle,  a  very  old  custom,  dating  back  over  fifty 
years,  they  say,  while  over  steins  at  the  Princeton  Inn,  or  in  the  grill 
of  the  Nassau  Club,  groups  of  stars  of  Yale,  Princeton  and  Harvard, 
heroes  of  bygone  days,  will  recall  their  lost  youth  and  the  deeds  which 
marked  them,  and  quaff  deep  to  memory. 

Both  teams  are  firm  and  ready ;  this  should  have  been  stated  at  the 
outset,  no  doubt,  and  would  have  been,  had  not  all  the  chromatic  glory 
and  feminine  pulchritude  and  manly  chivalry  claimed  for  the  time  being 
the  fancy  of  the  writer.  And  as  for  the  game,  there  will  be  plenty  of 
time  to  discuss  that  later.  Suffice  to  say  that  Yale  is  favorite  at  10  to  9  ; 
that  the  teams  are  well  matched,  and  that  they  will  fight  to  the  bitter 
end  on  a  fast  gridiron.  —  New  York  Evening  Post 

Editor's  Note.  The  promise  of  spirited  battle  between  the  bulldog  and 
the  tiger,  ancient  foes,  is  capitally  set  forth  in  this  atmosphere  story  of  a  college 
town  just  before  the  whistle  sounds  for  the  kick-off.  The  tense  expectadon  of 
victory,  college  camaraderie,  a  rare  day  in  November,  the  presence  of  bevies 
of  fair  maids  and  hordes  of  old  grads,  underclassmen,  and  visitors,  make  this 
picture  agreeable  to  the  eye.  The  description  at  times  is  suggestive  of  Jesse 
Lynch  Williams's  "  When  Girls  Come  to  Princeton." 


rVl'ICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


MATHEWSON    HUMBLED,   BUT  "OLD   MASTER,"  STILL 

Boston,  Oct.  12. — John  J.  McGraw  tonight  can  well  curse  the  bitter 
Fates  —  the  smashing  hand  of  Destiny.  If  the  coast  of  San  Salvador 
had  only  been  shrouded  420  years  ago  today  in  the  same  gray  yellow 
fog  which  swung  in  from  the  purling  Atlantic  over  Fenway  Park  this 
afternoon  old  Doc  Columbus  never  would  have  discovered  this  well- 
known  countr)',  and  the  Giants  would  not  be  back  on  the  rim  of  their 
second  world's  series  disaster  in  two  successive  years. 

But  it  was  evidently  a  beautiful  day  off  the  coast  of  San  Salvador,  and 
by  this  tough  break  of  fortune,  four  centuries  ago,  said  Giants  are  now 
up  against  a  large,  pear-shaped  time  of  it. 

Evidently  this  date  —  October  12  — -is  a  tiptop  day  for  launching 
discoveries.  For,  in  addition  to  Mr.  Columbus's  well-known  act,  more  or 
less  responsible  for  my  writing  and  your  reading  these  deathless  lines, 
Jake  Stahl  suddenly  di-scovercd  he  had  a  pitcher  named  Hugh  Bedient, 
and  ten  minutes  later  Mr.  Bedient  was  put  to  upsetting  the  renowned 
Mathewson  and  tearing  the  hide  off  the  Giants  in  the  best-pitched  game 
of  the  series  —  bar  none. 

Mathewson,  the  old  master,  spun  out  a  brilliant  game, —  one  of  his 
greatest, —  but  the  flashing  Bedient  broke  through  the  Giant  attack  like 
a  cannon  ball  through  the  cuticle  of  a  custard  pie.  Hurling  back  each 
Manhattan  rush  with  storming  speed  and  a  curve  that  streaked  and 
cracked,  the  Red  Sox  youngster  choked  the  Giants  to  four  hits  and 
beat  their  big  gun,  2  to  i,  in  a  battle  which  crowds  New  York  up 
against  a  forlorn  hope  —  a  handicap  that  only  one  of  the  miracles 
of  the  game  can  turn. 

Bedient,  overlooked  in  the  pitching  shuffle,  was  only  inserted  at  the 
last  minute,  but  once  in  charge  of  the  job,  he  proved  to  be  the  last  word 
in  pitching  through  the  five  games  played.  He  had  the  speed,  the  curve, 
the  control  and  the  heart,  and  by  this  combination  placed  the  Red  Sox 
out  with  three  games  to  one  and  only  one  more  victory  needed,  where 
their  rivals  require  three.  New  York  can  still  win  —  and  we  can  perhaps 
borrow  a  couple  of  thousand  from  Mr.  J.  Pierpont  Morgan.  But  as  far 
as  we  can  see  now  neither  classic  event  is  likely  to  transpire  within  a 
week's  time. 

But  Bedient,  winning,  had  the  battle  of  his  young  life.  Mathewson,  the 
veteran,  lost,  but  he  lost  with  as  much  glory  as  he  ever  achieved  by  victory. 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS  223 

One  fatal  flutter  on  his  part  starting  the  third  round  —  one  startling 
lapse,  followed  by  a  costly  bobble  from  Captain  Doyle  —  the  Giants'  best 
ball  player  —  and  Mathewson's  dream  sank  down  at  sunset. 

Hooper  opened  this  round  with  a  triple,  which  Herzog  dived  for  and 
missed  by  inches,  and  which  became  tangled  in  the  sharp  turn  of  the  left 
field  corner.  Steve  Yerkes  followed  with  a  line  smash  to  left-center,  which 
Snodgrass  played  slowly,  and  another  triple  was  recorded  with  Hooper 
over.  Speaker  then  tapped  weakly  to  Doyle,  and,  with  Yerkes  hugging 
the  third  sack,  the  Giant  second-sacker  "  blew  the  works  "  by  foozling 
the  play,  and  the  second  run  was  across. 

This  sudden  turn  acted  like  a  galvanic  shock  to  the  Old  Master.  He 
saw  his  team  about  to  be  beaten  again,  and  the  championship  of  the  world 
fading  out.  For  almost  any  other  pitcher  in  the  game  this  sudden  blow 
would  have  brought  on  disaster,  but  in  the  face  of  this  forlorn  fight, 
Mathewson  turned  back  the  tide  of  time  —  turned  back  to  his  greatest 
years,  when  there  was  only  one,  no  other  —  and,  working  with  a  heart 
of  iron  and  an  arm  of  steel,  he  cut  down  the  next  eighteen  men  up  in 
order.  Not  a  member  of  the  slashing  Red  Sox  crew  reached  first  from 
that  point  on  —  not  a  member  of  one  of  the  world's  best  hitting  teams 
could  break  for  one  instant  his  mighty  defense  —  but  the  rally,  wonder- 
ful as  it  was,  and  as  gripping  to  those  who  admire  raw  courage  and  a 
fighting  soul,  came  too  late  to  save  the  day. 

For  Bedient,  backed  by  a  great  club  at  the  top  of  its  game,  was  show- 
ing the  form  of  which  heroes  were  made.  There  was  the  mighty  Mathew- 
son pitching  his  soul  out  —  pitching  ball  from  the  third  round  on  that  no 
team  could  hit,  and  knowing  this,  knowing  that  one  slip  meant  defeat, 
the  Red  Sox  youngster  stood  by  his  guns,  even  when  the  Giant  attack 
had  drawn  up  within  one  run  of  a  tie  and  was  fighting  savagely  but 
vainly  for  a  last  grip  on  the  battle. 

In  the  seventh  round  Merkle  doubled,  and  McCormick,  batting  for 
Fletcher,  drove  him  home  with  a  sharp  punch  which  bounded  badly 
and  crossed  Gardner  at  third.  But  at  this  point  the  vital  spark  in  the 
Giant  attack  faded  out  —  faded  as  a  flickering  flame  is  snuffed  out  in 
the  gale  —  and  from  that  point  on  Bedient  was  matching  Mathewson 
with  all  the  wiles  and  stuff  which  go  into  unhittable  pitching.  Time  after 
time  he  flashed  a  third  strike  over  while  the  numbed  Giants  stood  with- 
out shifting  their  war  clubs.  He  crossed  them  fore  and  aft,  at  every 
turn,  and  crossed  them  as  only  some  trained  veteran  of  the  game  could 
be  expected  to  do. 


224  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Early  in  the  battle  he  fluttered  a  little,  passing  the  first  man  up  in  each 
of  the  two  rounds.  But  the  Giant  rush  was  feeble,  and  after  recovering 
his  poise  the  young  pitcher  sailed  through  with  a  game  that  outclassed 
a  game  that  even  Wood  has  shown. 

Before  the  scries  started,  the  bulk  of  oratory  was  all  centered  about 
Tcsreau  and  Mathewson  for  the  Giants  vs.  Wood,  and  Collins  for  the 
Red  Sox.    But  of  such  is  the  grand  old  dope  compiled. 

'Tvvas  ever  thus  from  childhood's  hour  — 
I  've  seen  my  fondest  dope  decay. 

After  all  the  talk  it  remained  for  Marquard  and  Bedient  to  step  for- 
ward with  the  best  stuff  shown,  and  neither  was  ranked  among  the 
star  hopes  of  the  series. 

Bedient  allowed  four  hits  against  Mathewson's  five,  and  outside  of 
Doyle's  one  costly  slip,  the  defensive  play  was  sharp  and  brilliant,  with 
Boston  leading.  In  addition  to  compiling  that  timely  triple,  Steve  Yerkes 
added  further  luster  to  his  fame  with  another  brilliant  display  at  second, 
where  his  errorless  ball  was  a  potent  factor.  The  supposedly  weak  cog 
in  the  Red  Sox  machine  has  been  the  strongest  point,  both  in  the  field 
and  at  the  bat.  His  batting  has  been  timely  and  in  a  flow  of  difficult 
chances  he  has  yet  to  make  his  first  error  in  five  games. 

In  the  summing  up,  no  slabman  who  ever  entered  a  world's  series  can 
show  the  tough-luck  breaks  which  Mathewson  has  encountered.  The 
Giant  veteran  has  pitched  two  games,  and  in  those  two  games  the  rival 
champs  have  earned  only  one  am  against  his  work.  One  earned  run  in 
nineteen  rounds,  and  yet  he  stands  without  a  victory  to  his  credit,  where  he 
might  have  counted  on  both  starts.  McGraw's  last  hope  now  centers  upon 
Rube  Marquard,  his  spiral  southpaw,  who  holds  title  to  the  sole  Giant  win. 

On  Monday,  in  New  York  —  upon  his  native  battlefield,  surrounded 
by  the  folks  at  home  —  the  eminent  Rube  will  make  his  last  stand  against 
Joe  Wood.  There  is  a  chance,  of  course,  that  Stahl  will  send  Collins,  his 
best  left  hander,  but  it  is  n't  likely,  for  the  strategy  of  the  game  demands 
Wood,  who  will  be  ready  with  a  three  days'  rest.  This  shift  will  give 
Stahl  a  chance  to  use  Wood  later  on  in  the  deciding  battle  if  the  Giants 
should  rally,  lead  a  forlorn  hope  and  tie  it  up. 

Whereas,  if  Wood  w^as  saved  until  Tuesday,  after  Marquard  had 
beaten  Collins,  which  in  form,  he  should  do,  a  victor)'  by  Tesreau  over 
Wood  would  leave  Stahl  facing  his  final  game  with  his  star  worker  out 
of  commission. 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS 


225 


It  will  be  Marquard  against  Wood  to  a  certainty  —  and  a  game  worth 
watching  from  afar.  If  Marquard  beats  Wood,  Tesreau  will  step  forth 
against  Bedient,  and  should  Tesreau  win  his  first  game,  Mathewson  will 
close  out  the  show  against  Wood  on  Wednesday.  But  there  are  too  many 
"  ifs  "  here  to  be  worth  any  further  comment,  beyond  the  next  game. 

Today's  game  looks  to  be  the  deciding  factor,  and  it  was  played  before 
a  record  crowd  in  record  time  for  world's  series  play.  Thirty-five  thousand 
saw  the  struggle,  and,  roaring,  raving  and  cheering,  the  Red  Sox  stormed 
on  the  field  after  the  contest  with  the  whoop  of  an  Apache  horde  celebrat- 
ing the  harvest  of  pale-face  scalps.  The  quick  turn  in  the  series  after 
an  even  start  came  when  the  Red  Sox  settled.  In  their  first  games  they 
played  far  below  form  —  were  nervous  and  overeager  and  drew  only 
average  pitching.  But  once  back  upon  their  feet,  with  the  edge  worn 
away,  they  settled  into  a  far  steadier  swing  than  the  Giants  and,  while 
given  no  better  pitching,  proved  to  be  there  with  the  old  punch  in  the 
pinch  and  defensive  play  that  had  New  York  outclassed. 

The  infield  work  has  even  surpassed  the  form  their  quartet  has 
shown  to  date. 

The  Giants  may  now  carry  the  series  to  seven  games,  including  the 
tie,  but  they  must  show  50  per  cent  improvement  all  around  to  make 
a  fight  of  it  down  to  the  final  contest.    The  score : 


NEW  YORK 
Devore,  If 
Doyle,  2b  .     . 
Snodgrass,  cf 
Murray,  rf 
Merkle,  ib     . 
Herzog,  3b    . 
Meyers,  c  .    . 
Fletcher,  ss  . 
*McCormick 
tShafer,  ss     . 
Mathewson,  p 

Totals 


AB  H     PO  A    E 


BOSTON 


AB  H  PO  A    E 


15 


4     24  13 


I 


*Batted  for  Fletcher  in  seventh. 


Hooper,  rf 4     2     4 

Yerkes,  2b 4     i     3 

Speaker,  cf      ....  3      i      3 

Lewis,  If 301 

Gardner,  3b     ....  3     o     3 

Stahl,  lb 307 

Wagner,  ss      ....31      i 

<^ady,  c 305 

Bedient,  p 3     o     o 

Totals  29     5  27     6 


tRan  for  McCormick  in  seventh. 


The  score  by  innings  : 

New  York 000000     i     00  —  i 

Boston o     o     2     o     o     o     o     o     x  —  2 

The  summary:  Runs — Merkle,  Hooper,  Yerkes.  Two-base  hit  —  Merkle. 
Three-base  hits  —  Hooper,  Yerkes.  Double  play  —  Wagner  to  Yerkes  to  Stahl. 
Left  on  bases  —  New  York  5,  Boston  3.  First  base  on  balls  —  Off  Bedient  3. 
First  base  on  errors  —  New  York  i,  Boston  i.  Struck  out  —  by  Mathewson  2,  by 
Bedient  4.  Time,  1.45.  Umpires  —  At  plate,  O'Loughlin ;  on  bases,  Rigler;  left 
field,  Klem  ;  right  field,  Evans.— Grantland  Rice,  in  A^ew  York  Evening  Mail 


226 


TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


Euitok's  Note.  This  baseball  story  is  replete  with  a  shrewd  use  of  pic- 
turesque and  vigorous  slang,  familiar  to  the  diamond,  and  strikes  a  gait  that 
carries  the  reader  to  the  end  with  breathless  interest.  The  outcome  of  the  game 
had  been  telegraphed  from  the  press  stand  to  the  down-town  papers  and  was 
doubtless  in  type  as  the  crowds  swarmed  into  the  waiting  cars.  An  extra  re- 
cited the  story  of  the  game  by  innings.  Consequently,  in  this  description  the 
conventional  epitome  of  the  lead  is  forgotten,  and  the  contest  fully  analyzed 
and  interpreted.  Some  passages  in  the  story  may  not  be  clearly  understood  by 
the  uninitiated,  but  it  is  worthy  of  consideration  because  of  its  rare  qualities  of 
spontaneity  and  romping  exuberance.  Rice  has  identified  himself  with  the  men 
who  saw  the  game  and  with  the  men  who  scanned  the  score  boards  down  town. 
He  keeps  nothing  back.  One  feels  that  he  is  as  much  concerned  in  the  promise 
of  victory  for  the  Giants  as  are  thousands  of  cheering  "  fans  "  who  crowded 
the  bleachers.  He  shows  almost  a  fatherly  love  for  the  boys,  criticizing,  ap- 
plauding, sympathizing,  exalting  the  spirit  of  battle.  He  does  not  occupy  a  coign 
of  detachment ;  the  game  quickens  his  pulse.  Much  of  the  story  is  built  upon 
the  achievements  of  Mathewson,  old  master  and  baseball  idol,  and  upon  the 
spectacular  performance  of  Bedient,  a  younger  antagonist,  who  wrenched  glory 
and  victory  from  the  veteran  in  a  hard-fought  pitching  tournament.  Rice  is 
more  than  a  blinded  partisan ;  he  delights  in  good  sportsmanship  wherever 
displayed.    As  a  description  of  an  exciting  game  this  story  is  superb. 


OUIMET  WORLD'S  GOLF  CHAMPION 


CARDS    OF   THE    PLAYERS 

OUIMET 

Out 5     4     4     4     5     4     4     3     5-     38 

In 3     4     4     4     5     4     3     3     4-     34-  72 

Vardon 

Out 5     4     4     4     5     3     4     4     5-     38 

^" 4     4     5     3     5     4     3     5     6-     39-  77 

Ray 

Out 5     4     5     4     5     4     3     3     5-     38 

I" 4     4     5     4     5     6     4     5     3-     40-  78 

Brookline,  Mass.,  Sept.  20. —  Another  name  was  added  to  America's 
list  of  victors  in  international  sport  here  today  v^^hen  Francis  Ouimet, 
which  for  the  benefit  of  the  uninitiated  is  pronounced  "we-met,"  a 
youthful  local  amateur,  won  the  nineteenth  open  championship  of  the 
United  States  Golf  Association. 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS  227 

The  winning  of  this  national  title  was  lifted  to  an  international  plane, 
due  to  the  sensational  circumstances  of  the  play  and  to  the  caliber  of  the 
entrants  whom  Ouimet  defeated  during  his  four-day  march  to  victory. 
Safely  berthed  in  his  qualifying  round,  the  boy  trailed  the  leaders  in 
the  first  half  of  the  championship  round ;  tied  with  Harry  Vardon  and 
Edward  Ray,  the  famous  English  professionals,  for  the  first  place  in  the 
final  round,  then  completely  outplayed  them  today  in  the  eighteen-hole 
extra  round  which  was  necessary  to  decide  the  19 13  championship. 

Ouimet  won  with  the  score  of  72  strokes,  two  under  par  for  one  of 
the  hardest  courses  in  the  country.  Vardon  finished  five  strokes  behind 
Ouimet  with  77  ;   Ray  took  third  place  with  78. 

It  was  not  the  actual  defeat  of  this  famous  pair  of  golfers  so  much  as 
the  manner  of  that  defeat  that  entitles  Ouimet's  name  to  rank  with  that 
of  Maurice  E.  McLoughlin,  champion  in  tennis ;  Harry  Payne  Whitney, 
leader  in  polo ;  and  James  Thorpe,  victor  in  athletics.  Ouimet,  a  tall, 
slender  youth,  just  past  his  teens,  outplayed  and  outnerved  not  only 
Vardon  and  Ray  in  the  play-off,  a  wonderful  fact  in  itself,  but  succeeded 
in  battling  his  way  through  the  largest  and  most  remarkable  field  of 
entrants  that  ever  played  for  an  American  title.  When  the  qualifying 
rounds  began  last  Tuesday  the  lists  contained  170  names,  including,  in 
addition  to  Vardon  and  Ray,  those  of  Wilfred  Reid,  another  well-known 
English  player  ;  Louis  Tellier,  a  French  professional  of  note ;  a  few 
high-class  amateurs  and  a  host  of  American  and  foreign  professionals 
playing  for  United  States  and  Canadian  clubs. 

When  Ouimet  holed  his  final  stroke  on  the  home  green  of  the  Country 
Club  this  afternoon  the  8000  persons  who  had  tramped  through  the 
heavy  mist  and  dripping  grass  behind  the  trio  of  players  for  almost  three 
hours  realized  what  the  victory  meant  to  American  golf,  and  the  scenes 
of  elation  which  followed  were  pardonable  under  the  circumstances. 

The  pride  in  the  young  American's  victory  was  all  the  more  justified 
because  of  the  fact  that  he  had  won  without  fluke  or  flaw  in  his  play, 
responding  in  perfect  form  to  a  test  of  nerve,  stamina  and  knowledge  of 
golf  never  before  required  of  a  player  in  a  national  tournament.  All 
through  the  crucial  journey  around  the  i8-hole  course  Ouimet  never 
faltered.  In  fact  his  play  might  be  termed  mechanical,  so  perfect  was  it 
under  the  trying  weather  and  course  conditions.  He  appeared  absolutely 
without  nerve,  playing  from  tee  to  fairway,  from  fairway  to  green  and 
finishing  each  hole  with  a  splendid  exhibition  of  putting.    His  veteran 


228  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

opponents,  tried  pla)-ers  of  many  a  hard-won  matcli  in  various  parts  of 
the  world,  broke  under  the  strain,  leaving  Ouimet  to  finish  as  coolly  as 
he  had  started. 

The  very  fact  that  \^ardon  and  Ray  could  not  hold  up  under  the 
stress  of  the  struggle  shows  the  titanic  form  and  strain  of  the  final  round 
of  the  championship.  Vardon  has  five  times  won  the  English  open 
championship,  and  in  1900  won  the  American  open  at  Wheaton,  111., 
defeating  J.  H.  Taylor,  England's  greatest  golfer  and  present  champion. 

Before  the  tournament  began  Ray,  Vardon  and  Reid  were  2  to  i 
favorites  to  win  over  the  remainder  of  the  field.  Even  after  Ouimet  had 
tied  with  his  two  opponents  of  today,  wagers  were  laid  at  5  to  4  that 
one  of  the  two  Englishmen  would  defeat  him  and  even  money  on  Ray 
or  Vardon  against  Ouimet  alone. 

The  scenes  of  jubilation  on  the  home  green  after  the  match  had  been 
won  were,  therefore,  but  natural  expressions  of  pride  and  pleasure  at 
Ouimet's  success  in  retaining  a  championship  for  America  which  was 
considered  earlier  in  the  week  destined  to  cross  the  Atlantic. 

Thousands  of  dripping  rubber-coated  spectators  massed  about  Ouimet, 
who  was  hoisted  to  the  shoulders  of  those  nearest  to  him,  while  cheer  after 
cheer  rang  out  in  his  honor.  Excited  women  tore  bunches  of  flowers 
from  their  bodices  and  hurled  them  at  the  youthful  winner;  hundreds 
of  men  strove  to  reach  him  in  order  to  pat  him  on  the  back  or  shake 
his  hand. 

Ray  and  Vardon,  whose  fight  for  the  open  championship  brought 
out  the  possibilities  of  Ouimet  as  a  golfer,  were  not  forgotten  in  the 
celebration  of  victory.  Each  Englishman  got  a  three  times  three  before 
the  parade  started  for  the  dressing  quarters,  where  the  recent  com- 
petitors changed  to  dry  clothing  for  the  presentation  of  the  medals  and 
other  prizes. 

During  this  ceremony,  in  which  Secretary  John  Reid,  Jr.,  acted  as 
master  of  ceremonies,  both  Ray  and  Vardon  took  the  opportunity  to 
praise  Ouimet  as  a  sportsman  and  golfer.  Ray  said  that  Ouimet  had 
played  the  best  golf  during  the  four-day  struggle  that  he  had  ever  seen 
in  America,  and  that  it  had  been  an  honor  to  play  with  him  and  no  dis- 
honor to  lose  to  him.  Vardon  brought  cheers  from  the  gallery  when  he 
frankly  stated  that  they  had  never  had  a  chance  to  win  with  Ouimet, 
during  the  play-off,  because  the  lad  played  better  golf  and  never  gave 
them  an  opening  at  one  of  the  eighteen  holes.    He  congratulated  Ouimet 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS  229 

and  America  on  the  victory  and  proved  a  popular  speech  maker  as 
well  as  golfer.  Secretary  Rcid  in  awarding  the  championship  medal  to 
Ouimet,  the  trophy  to  the  Woodland  Club  of  Auburndale,  Mass.,  which 
he  represented,  and  cash  prizes  to  Vardon  and  Ray,  took  occasion  to 
apologize  "  in  a  slight  way,"  as  he  put  it,  for  the  outbursts  of  cheering 
at  inopportune  times. 

This  was  a  delicate  reference  to  a  feature  of  today's  play  which  is 
quite  likely  to  be  a  subject  of  international  comment  by  the  golfing  con- 
tingents of  England  and  the  United  States.  The  management  of  the 
tournament  has  been  the  subject  of  much  praise,  but  today  the  gallery 
several  times  violated  the  keen  ethics  of  the  sport,  by  cheering  wildly 
whenever  Ouimet  gained  a  point.  The  same  outbursts  occurred  yesterday, 
but  Ouimet  was  then  playing  with  George  Sargent,  who  had  no  chance 
for  first  place  in  the  final  half  of  his  round.  Today  it  was  different,  for 
both  Ray  and  Vardon  were  playing  shots  either  just  before  or  after  Oui- 
met, and  it  was  plainly  evident  that  these  outbreaks  annoyed  them. 
Approaching  the  seventeenth  hole,  Ray  deliberately  stopped  in  the  midst 
of  a  swing  and  refused  to  play  until  the  cheering  ceased.  This  action  of 
the  gallery  had  little  or  no  effect  on  the  result  of  the  match,  but  a  num- 
ber of  golfers  publicly  voiced  their  regret  that  cheering  like  that  at  boat 
races  or  football  games  should  have  occurred,  although  they  realized 
and  stated  that  it  was  impossible  to  check  these  national  outbursts  of 
enthusiasm  when  Ouimet  made  particularly  good  plays. 

It  was  exactly  10  o'clock  when  the  trio  of  players  teed  up  in  the  driz- 
zle for  the  start.  The  fairways  and  greens  were  water-soaked  and  in 
many  places  churned  to  the  consistency  of  muddy  paste  by  the  trampling 
of  hundreds  of  feet  during  the  last  three  days  of  rain.  Overhead  low- 
hanging  gray  clouds  appeared  to  be  part  of  the  mist  which  would  have 
made  the  most  ardent  Scotch  golfer  feel  perfectly  at  home.  The  first 
and  second  holes  were  recorded  in  fives  and  fours  for  all  three  players. 

Both  Ray  and  Vardon  outdrove  Ouimet  from  the  tees,  but  both  sliced 
and  pulled  slightly,  while  the  ultimate  winner  held  true  to  the  course. 

The  first  break  came  at  the  third  hole,  where  Ray  took  a  five,  while 
the  other  two  players  holed  in  four.  There  was  no  advantage  either  way 
on  the  fourth  and  fifth,  but  Vardon  took  the  lead  in  the  si.xth  with  a 
three  while  Ray  and  Ouimet  required  four.  Ray  drove  furthest,  but 
Vardon's  approach  was  right  on  the  green  and  he  holed  a  comparatively 
easy  putt,  while  Ray  and  Ouimet  needed  two. 


230  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Vardon  and  Ouimct  took  four  for  the  short  seventh,  approaching 
indifferently,  while  Ray  was  on  the  green  in  two  and  holed  a  brilliant  putt 
for  three,  drawing  up  even  with  Ouimet.  Vardon  lost  his  head  in  the 
eighth,  when,  after  getting  on  the  green  in  two,  he  putted  badly,  requiring 
two  in  hole.  Ouimet's  second  was  within  a  foot  of  the  pin,  and  he  scored 
an  easy  three.  Ray  arose  to  the  occasion  with  a  beautiful  25-foot  putt  for 
a  three  also.  All  took  fives  on  the  ninth,  the  longest  and  hardest  hole  of 
the  course,  being  520  yards  of  hill  and  dale,  known  as  the  Himalayas. 

It  therefore  came  about  that  the  two  Englishmen  and  the  American 
youth  played  the  greatest  match  in  the  history  of  golf  on  this  continent, 
turning  for  home  all  square  at  38. 

Ouimet  immediately  jumped  to  the  fore  with  a  three  on  the  short  tenth. 
All  were  on  the  green  in  one,  but  Ray  and  Vardon  each  needed  three 
putts  to  hole,  while  Ouimet,  from  his  more  favorable  lie,  scored  with  two. 
This  gave  him  a  lead  of  a  stroke  and  marked  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

The  eleventh  was  halved  in  four,  but  Ouimet  picked  up  another  stroke 
on  the  twelfth.  He  outdrove  both  opponents  from  the  tee,  and  his 
approach  was  within  eight  feet  of  the  hole,  but  he  took  two  putts  for 
a  four.  Ray  and  Vardon  both  had  trouble  in  getting  to  the  edge  of  the 
green  in  twos,  and,  putting  poorly,  halved  in  five.  All  landed  on  the 
thirteenth  green,  with  their  second  shots,  but  Vardon's  perfect  putt  gave 
him  a  three,  while  Ouimet  and  Ray  took  two  for  fours. 

The  fourteenth  was  halved  in  five,  and  with  but  four  holes  to  play 
Ouimet  was  leading  by  the  narrow  margin  of  one  stroke.  Vardon  stayed 
with  him  on  the  fifteenth,  each  getting  a  four,  but  Ray,  after  hitting  a 
spectator  with  his  sliced  drive,  reached  the  sand  trap  on  the  mashie  shot. 
He  required  two  to  get  on  the  green  and  two  putts  for  a  six.  He  was 
now  four  strokes  behind  Ouimet  and  three  behind  Vardon,  and  his  ex- 
perience appeared  to  break  his  playing  nerve. 

On  the  sixteenth,  the  shortest  hole  of  the  course,  all  played  the  125- 
yard  iron  shot  to  the  green.  Vardon  and  Ouimet  made  par  threes,  but 
Ray  required  three  putts  for  a  four,  so  off  was  he  on  his  game. 

Ouimet  won  the  match  and  title  on  the  seventeenth,  when  he  got  a 
three  for  his  opponents'  fives.  The  youngster  drove  far  down  the  fairway, 
was  on  the  green  in  two,  and  holed  a  short  putt,  one  stroke  below  par. 
Vardon,  who  had  been  showing  signs  of  the  strain,  hooked  his  drive  into 
a  trap,  took  three  to  the  green,  and  two  putts  to  hole.  Ray  was  in  deep 
grass,  and,  playing  as  though  he  had  given  up  hope,  halved  the  hole  with 


GRIDIRON,  DIAMOND,  AND  LINKS  231 

his  counttyman.  He  rallied  and  scored  a  three  on  the  home  hole  with  a 
long  putt,  while  Ouimet,  playing  safe,  had  a  par  four.  Vardon's  second 
shot  was  short,  landing  in  the  mud  of  the  race  course,  and  when  he 
finally  holed  for  the  last  time  of  the  match  his  card  showed  a  six. 

A  re'sume'  of  the  play  shows  that  while  Ouimet  was  frequently  outdriven 
with  iron  and  wood,  his  game  was  far  steadier  and  more  consistent  than 
that  of  either  Ray  or  Vardon.  The  two  Englishmen  showed  a  tendency 
to  slice  and  pull  their  first  and  second  shots,  which  got  them  into  trouble 
frequently.  While  Ouimet  did  not  get  the  distance  of  his  competitors,  he 
played  line  shots  all  during  the  match,  his  direction  being  little  short  of 
remarkable,  considering  the  soft,  muddy  condition  of  the  turf.  In  putting, 
too,  he  was  steadier  and  more  accurate  than  either  Ray  or  Vardon.  — 
Edward  Moss,  in  Netv  York  Times 

Editor's  Note.  Here  is  another  hero  of  the  game,  a  worthy  companion 
to  Brickley.  His  victory  over  famous  English  golfers  is  more  than  a  personal 
achievement ;  it  is  a  triumph  for  America  and  for  youth.  Announcement  of 
victory  has  an  epic  significance.  These  facts  are  all  accentuated  in  the  lead, 
which  summarizes  the  events  that  led  up  to  the  winning  of  the  national  tide. 

The  setting  of  the  tournament  is  admirably  sketched  —  a  gray,  drizzling  day, 
sodden  turf,  dripping  spectators,  and  the  lithe  figure  of  Ouimet  with  poised 
stick.  His  cool  abandon  and  perfect  exhibition  of  form  are  vividly  delineated. 
The  enthusiasm  of  the  green  has  been  transferred  to  the  printed  page.  It 
is  a  colorful  picture. 

Attention  is  called  to  the  apt  use  of  technical  terms  of  the  game  and  to  the 
summaries  of  the  game.  The  handling  of  these  facts  indicates  familiarity  with 
the  fine  points  of  golf.  It  is  an  interesting  paradox  to  note  that  this  story  of 
the  winning  of  the  title  was  written  by  a  man  who  up  to  that  day  had  never 
written  about  a  golf  match  and  had  never  watched  one.  His  knowledge  of  the 
game  was  picked  up  at  the  course,  from  observations,  and  from  explanatory 
remarks  volunteered  by  spectators.  The  story  is  a  tribute  to  the  reporter's 
resourcefulness,  to  his  quick  adaptability  of  mind  to  subject,  and  to  his  keen 
appreciation  of  news  values. 


X 

CROWDS 

It  is  the  reporter's  place  to  feel  the  impulse  of  the  crowd,  to 
interpret  the  underlying  emotion,  that  unseen  force  which  runs 
through  it  like  a  thread.  A  description  of  mere  externals,  however 
colorful,  often  fails  to  give  the  reader  the  emotional  impressions  he 
would  have  felt  had  he  been  on  ihe  scene.  The  reporter  must 
detect  the  emotional  beat  of  a  crowd  so  keenly  that  he  can  pass 
this  on  to  the  reader.  This  implies  a  certain  sensitiveness  which 
many  men  lack.  Consequently  the  reporter  with  a  book  full  of 
notes,  faithfully  kept,  may  write  a  story  which  brings  no  response 
from  the  man  who  reads  it.  He  has  presented  the  facts  accurately, 
but  he  has  missed  the  spirit  of  the  hurrying  multitudes.  In  addi- 
tion, the  newspaper  man  must  see  and  feel  more  than  the  average 
spectator.  He  must  i  doit  if y  himself  with  the  crowd.  He  must  be 
a  critical  onlooker ;  he  must  also  possess  a  disinterested  curiosity 
and  a  steady  pulse.  The  reporter  who  would  write  the  story  of 
crowds  must  have  two  faculties  welded  into  one  :  first,  a  keen 
power  of  observation  that  records  on  the  plate  of  memory  a  pro- 
cession of  vivid  images  instantly  at  his  beck  and  call ;  and  second, 
a  masterly  gift  of  expression. 

IVIAYOR  GAYNOR'S  BODY  AT  REST  IN  GREENWOOD 

Earth  has  received  back  again  the  body  of  William  Jay  Gaynor, 
which  now  rests  beneath  the  sod  in  Greenwood  Cemetery,  in  the  city 
that  he  loved. 

Half  a  million  of  his  fellow  citizens  watched  the  progress  of  his  cor- 
tege to  the  tomb  ;  ten  thousand  marched  for  five  miles  to  his  grave  ;  ten 
thousand  more  saw  his  coffin  of  triple  bronze  lowered  to  its  narrow  home. 

Without  parallel  was  the  funeral  of  this  man  whose  epitaph  may  one 
day  be,  "  I  have  been  Mayor."  The  services  in  Trinity  Church,  following 

232 


CROWDS  233 

the  demonstration  of  affection  when  he  lay  in  state  in  the  City  Hall  Sun- 
day, were  dominated  by  the  simple  faith  of  the  late  publicist  and  sage. 

They  brought  together  under  the  groined  roof  of  the  stately  pile  the 
humble  and  the  mighty,  those  of  high  estate  and  no  estate.  Masters  of 
millions,  diplomatists,  men  of  science  and  letters,  leaders  in  social  life, 
distinguished  officers  of  the  army  and  navy  mourned  for  him  as  man  and 
friend.  Statesmen  and  scholars  were  his  pallbearers,  and  a  one-time 
President  of  the  United  States  walked  beside  his  bier. 

From  Bowling  Green  in  Manhattan  to  Greenwood  Cemetery  in  Brook- 
lyn, the  route  of  his  sable  catafalque  was  surrounded  by  a  reverent 
multitude,  including  fifteen  thousand  children  in  one  section  alone. 

Part  of  the  way  followed  the  path  of  his  daily  walks  from  the  City  Hall 
to  his  home  in  Brooklyn.  One  thousand  employees  of  the  Bridge  Depart- 
ment stood  at  attention  on  that  shining  span  which  he  shall  tread  no  more. 

While  bishops  offered  the  prayers  of  his  own  abiding  faith  the  city 
was  stilled.  No  cars  ran  in  the  subway,  all  craft  which  flew  the  municipal 
flag  were  halted  in  the  streams  and  bay,  shipping  sent  its  colors  to  half 
mast,  and  from  thousands  of  buildings  floated  the  half  lowered  Stars 
and  Stripes. 

Three  years  have  passed  since  he  received  the  bullet  which  he  bore  to 
his  grave.  He  had  fought  the  good  fight  of  which  the  Apostle  speaks, 
and  yesterday  his  praise  was  on  the  lips  of  a  loyal  citizenry  who 
mourned  for  him  as  philosopher  and  sage. 

Exercises  were  held  in  the  schools  and  churches,  and  those  who  knew 
him  well  propose  that  a  great  memorial  mass  meeting  be  convened. 

Mist  and  rain  veiled  the  peaks  of  Manhattan  yesterday  morning  as 
thousands  of  uniformed  men  moved  into  the  network  of  streets  about 
the  City  Hall  ready  to  follow  William  Jay  Gaynor  to  his  grave. 

From  the  dim  defiles  among  the  skyscrapers  came  bands  of  citizens, 
bankers,  merchants,  while  from  the  East  Side  marched  newcomers  in 
this  land  of  promise. 

The  inclement  weather  caused  a  shrinkage  in  the  parade  as  arranged, 
yet  it  could  not  keep  any  large  proportion  of  those  away  who  had  intended 
to  pay  the  last  honors  to  the  memory  of  the  late  Chief  Magistrate  of 
New  York. 

Mounted  police  aids  galloped  in  the  swirling  water  of  the  pave- 
ments ;  automobiles  bearing  noted  men  glided  over  the  plaza,  and  scores 


234  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

arrived  from  the  courts,  from  the  departments  and  from  their  homes 
in  the  upper  districts. 

Then  the  clouds  suddenly  broke  from  the  face  of  the  skies,  and  golden 
sunshine  flooded  the  air  and  rested  like  a  benison  upon  a  city  of  grief. 
At  that  moment,  half-past  ten  o'clock,  the  doors  of  the  City  Hall  were 
opened  and  down  the  steps  walked  the  honorary  pallbearers.  The  light 
glinted  upon  a  coffin  of  triple  bronze  borne  by  police  and  firemen,  and  a 
breeze  caught  a  fold  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  upon  it  half  hidden  by 
the  official  flag  of  him  who  had  been  Mayor.    Thus  began  his  funeral. 

Thousands  of  citizens  gathered  about  the  park  and  in  the  adjacent 
streets  uncovered  as  they  saw  the  dark -garbed  group  emerge.  The  police 
saluted  with  their  batons.  A  hush  fell  upon  the  assemblage  at  sight  of 
the  flag-draped  coffin  being  now  slowly  lifted  to  the  sable  catafalque. 
Once  the  bearers  had  put  their  burden  on  the  topmost  tier  of  the  car, 
they  leaned  against  one  side  of  it  a  wreath  of  orchids  and  of  galax 
leaves  sent  only  a  few  minutes  before  by  Mrs.  Gaynor,  and  on  the 
other  a  similar  wreath  of  white  chrysanthemums  from  the  Gaynor  sons 
and  daughters. 

At  the  end  of  the  coffin  was  a  simple  floral  tribute  made  of  two 
crossed  branches  of  the  cycas  palm  and  a  cluster  of  purple  asters,  the 
tribute  of  Police  Lieutenant  William  Kennel,  for  years  the  personal  at- 
tendant and  aid  of  the  Mayor.  It  had  its  place  of  honor  by  the  direction 
of  the  family.  The  catafalque  was  drawn  by  sixteen  jet  black  horses  in 
trailing  trappings,  each  led  by  a  policeman  or  fireman,  whose  marked 
sleeves  revealed  them  as  the  flower  of  a  united  service. 

Down  in  Broadway  the  van  of  the  forming  procession  moved  at  a 
bugle  note.  First  the  small  platoon  of  police  cavalry ;  then  the  police 
band  playing  the  "  Dead  March  "  from  "  Saul  "  ;  a  squadron  of  mounted 
police,  and  last  a  regiment  of  police  infantry,  agile,  lithe-limbed  men  of 
the  new  order,  1260  strong,  and  every  one  appointed  or  promoted  in 
the  administration  just  closed  by  death. 

At  either  side  of  the  funeral  car  walked  the  distinguished  Americans 
chosen  as  pallbearers.  Leading  the  file  on  the  right  was  William  Howard 
Taft;  on  the  left  Colonel  Ardolph  L.  Kline,  present  Mayor  of  the 
city.  The  others  were:  Robert  Adamson,  secretary  to  the  Mayor; 
Rhinelander  Waldo,  Police  Commissioner;  Jacob  H.  Schiff,  Herman 
Ridder  and  James  Creelman,  all  on  the  right,  while  opposite  were  Robert 
A.    C.    Smith,    Commissioner   of    Docks    and    Ferries;    Archibald   R. 


CROWDS  235 

Watson,  the  Corporation  Counsel ;  Justice  Keogh,  John  D.  Crimmins 
and  Edward  M.  Grout. 

The  catafalque  was  preceded  by  Lieutenant  Kennel,  bearing  upon  his 
arm  the  badge  of  mourning,  while  a  look  of  grief  rested  upon  his  strong- 
featured  face. 

Behind  the  funeral  car  were  the  members  of  the  Board  of  Estimate 
and  Apportionment,  a  committee  of  the  Board  of  Aldermen,  the  heads 
of  departments,  justices  of  the  Supreme  Court,  the  Bench  of  Special 
Sessions,  the  city  magistrates,  representatives  of  the  army,  the  navy  and 
the  National  Guard,  consular  officers,  the  representative  of  the  Lord 
Mayor  of  Liverpool,  a  delegation  of  mayors  from  other  cities,  the 
escort  of  honor  composed  of  well-known  men  of  New  York,  a  battalion 
of  firemen,  citizens'  organizations  and  employees  of  the  municipal 
government  —  a  column  of  ten  thousand  in  all. 

The  sidewalks  were  packed  from  curb  to  building  line  by  a  reverent 
multitude,  which  stood  with  hats  removed  while  the  bells  of  Trinity  tolled 
for  the  dead.  It  was  a  throng  which  forgot  things  temporal  to  do  honor 
to  an  ideal.  Here  and  there  some  foreigner  who  had  not  caught  the 
spirit  of  the  day  was  reminded  of  it,  and  he  quickly  bared  his  head.  The 
approach  of  the  procession  down  the  long  canyon  could  be  traced  from 
afar  by  the  peopling  of  the  myriad  windows  which  lined  the  way.  The 
leader  of  finance,  the  clerk  and  the  office  boy  were  of  one  intent,  to  show 
they  knew  and  recognized  a  strong  personality  which  is  no  more. 

The  car  of  death  halted  at  the  draped  door  of  Trinity  and  into  the 
porch  was  borne  the  coffin  of  bronze.  And  there  it  rested  while  bells 
tolled  and  organ  pealed  and  men  and  women  within  the  storied  edifice 
bowed  their  heads  in  silent  prayer. 

And  there  they  waited  in  the  cushioned  pews  —  the  master  of  millions 
and  the  pushcart  peddler,  the  maker  of  railroads  and  the  taxicab  driver, 
officers  of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce,  small  dealers  in  poultry,  scientists 
of  renown  and  liquor  dealers,  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  drawn  to 
the  same  roof  by  common  sorrow. 

How  great  was  the  appeal  of  the  Mayor  to  his  fellowmen  was  shown 
by  the  barrier  of  bloom  at  the  chancel.  The  wreath  sent  by  the  Lord 
Mayor  of  Liverpool  was  there,  and  near  it,  crossed  on  an  easel,  were  the 
flags  of  Great  Britain  and  the  United  States.  The  firemen  had  sent  a 
towering  wreath  of  roses  dedicated  to  a  great  chief  and  the  man  who 
was  fair.    The  boys  of  the  House  of  Refuge  had  fashioned  a  circlet  of 


236  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

flowers  raised  by  their  own  hands.  The  merchants  of  Chinatown  had 
sent  a  gates  ajar  ten  feet  high.  A  broken  column  of  flowers  was  dedi- 
cated to  the  memory  of  the  Mayor  by  his  office  staff.  Many  of  the 
flowers  which  were  at  the  City  Hall  had  been  transferred  to  the  church. 

The  great  candelabra  were  lighted  at  right  and  left  of  the  chancel,  and 
a  mellow  light  shone  upon  the  alabaster  panel  representing  the  Passion 
and  was  reflected  through  the  sapphires  of  the  cross  of  gilt  which  rose 
from  the  marble  altar.  The  notes  of  Chopin's  "  Funeral  March  "  echoed 
softly  down  the  pillared  aisles,  and  from  the  vestry  room  at  the  gospel 
side  of  the  altar  came  the  clergy  and  went  down  slowly  the  length  of  the 
church,  led  by  the  dark-robed  sexton,  William  C.  Broughton.  Bishop 
Greer  and  the  Suffragan  Bishop  of  the  diocese,  the  Right  Rev.  Dr.  Burch, 
were  in  the  rear  of  the  procession.  The  sentences  were  read  by  Bishop 
Burch,  bringing  the  solemn  message  of  the  resurrection  and  the  life. 

The  coffin  was  borne  by  five  policemen  and  five  firemen,  and  before 
it  marched  Lieutenant  Kennel,  and  followed  by  the  pallbearers  and  the 
family.  As  it  rested  upon  the  two  pedestals  prepared  for  it,  the  voices 
of  the  choir  were  blended  in  the  chanting  of  the  Thirty-ninth  and  Nine- 
tieth Psalms.  The  notes  died  in  the  arches  above  and  from  the  spire 
the  half  hour  struck,  the  time  at  which  all  the  city  mourned. 

On  the  waters  every  craft  which  flies  the  municipal  flag  stopped  its 
engines,  the  work  of  departments  ceased,  the  trains  in  the  subway  were 
halted  and  throughout  the  broad  domain  of  imperial  New  York  citizens 
bowed  their  heads  in  memory  of  their  dead  leader. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  Frank  W.  Page,  now  of  Fairfax,  Va.,  and  once  rector 
of  St.  John's  Church,  in  Brooklyn,  which  the  Mayor  attended,  was 
honored  by  being  seated  next  to  the  Bishop,  whose  throne  was  on  the 
south  side  of  the  sanctuary.  Bishop  Burch  was  alone  on  the  epistle  side. 
The  other  clergy  were  in  the  choir.  The  Rev.  Dr.  William  T.  Manning, 
rector  of  Trinity,  read  the  lesson  from  the  fifteenth  chapter  of  the  first 
Epistle  of  St.  Paul  to  the  Corinthians,  including  the  first  twenty  verses. 

Mayor  Gaynor's  favorite  Psalm  was  the  Twenty-third,  which  has  a 
musical  setting  in  the  anthem,  "  Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  Val- 
ley of  the  Shadow  of  Death,"  which  was  then  sung  by  the  choir.  It 
was  significant,  too,  that  the  verses  over  the  bier  of  one  who  in  life  was 
the  friend  of  youth  should  be  sung  by  a  boy.  Master  Howard  Foote, 
who  had  the  solo.  The  Apostle's  Creed  was  read  by  the  venerable 
William  Holden,  Archdeacon  of  Suffolk  and  the  rector  of  the  Protestant 


CROWDS  237 

Episcopal  Church  at  St.  James,  L.I.,  where  the  Mayor  had  his  summer 
home.    Several  additional  prayers  also  were  offered  by  Dr.  Holden. 

In  conversation  with  a  minister  friend  the  Mayor  had  once  said  that 
many  things  in  theology  puzzled  and  confused  him,  but  that  he  had  an 
abiding  faith  in  God.  His  simple  creed  is  expressed  in  the  first  verse  of 
the  hymn  "  Lead,  Kindly  Light,"  which  he  always  liked  to  hear.    It  is  as 

follows : 

Lead,  kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircUng  gloom, 

Lead  Thou  me  on ; 
The  night  is  dark  and  I  am  far  from  home ; 

Lead  Thou  me  on. 
Keep  Thou  my  feet;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene  ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

High  noon !  The  clock  of  Trinity  strikes  as  the  singing  of  the  hymn 
ends.   The  fullness  of  life  is  reached,  the  sun  is  on  its  downward  course. 

I  saw  those  in  the  congregation  who  were  stirred  by  the  old-fashioned 
hymn,  as  though  to  them,  too,  it  came  as  a  message.  The  policemen 
and  firemen  bearers,  seated  on  benches  near  the  chancel,  bent  forward 
as  though  following  the  words.  Silence  pervaded  the  great  edifice  for  a 
moment,  then  clerical  vestments  rustled,  and  the  Bishop  came  out  from 
the  sanctuary  and  stood  on  the  chancel  steps  directly  above  the  coffin. 
On  his  right  was  the  Rev.  Dr.  Manning,  on  his  left  the  Suffragan  Bishop. 
Gathered  about  the  cofhn  below  were  the  clergy  of  Trinity,  the  Rev. 
John  W.  Hill,  the  Rev.  Bruce  F.  Reddish  and  the  Rev.  G.  W.  Sutton. 
Near  them  were  Archdeacon  Holden  and  the  Rev.  Henry  Handel, 
a  chaplain  of  the  Fire  Department.  The  Rev.  Edward  Hein,  a  chaplain 
of  the  Department  of  Charities,  who  acted  as  crucifer,  also  took  part. 

Bishop  Greer  read  the  committal  service  beginning  with  the  words 
"  Man  that  is  bom  of  a  woman  hath  but  a  short  time  to  live  and  is  full 
of  misery.  He  cometh  up  and  is  cut  down  like  a  flower ;  he  fleeth  as  it 
were  a  shadow  and  never  continueth  in  one  stay." 

At  the  end  of  the  committal  service  the  Rev.  Dr.  Page  scattered 
a  vial  of  earth  upon  the  coffin.  The  benediction  was  then  pronounced 
by  the  Bishop.  The  recessional  hymn  was  "  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee," 
and  as  the  church  was  being  cleared  the  Beethoven  funeral  march  was 
played.  In  the  services  the  chancel  organ  was  played  by  Moritz  E. 
Schwartz,  assistant  organist  of  Trinity,  and  the  high  organ  by  Robert  W. 
Winterbottom,  organist  of  St.  Luke's  Chapel. 


^y 


TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


The  coffin  was  carried  down  the  aisle  to  the  front  door  of  the  church 
and  placed  on  the  waiting  catafalque.  A  guard  of  police  which  had  been 
drawn  up  at  the  opposite  curb  presented  batons  in  military  style.  The 
two  hundred  carriages  which  had  been  provided  for  the  family,  the 
pallbearers  and  the  Citizens'  Committee  were  drawn  to  the  curb  at 
half-past  twelve  o'clock,  as  the  service  ended. 

Here  the  perfection  of  the  police  arrangements  under  the  direction  of 
Inspectors  Titus  and  Leahy  met  every  test.  In  the  region  from  the 
church  to  the  City  Hall  it  was  estimated  that  more  than  one  hundred 
thousand  persons  were  pressing  against  the  police  lines,  which  stood 
like  walls  of  adamant.  The  regiment  of  police  had  moved  to  the  north 
of  the  churchyard  and  the  catafalque  was  immediately  behind  them. 
The  pallbearers  were  in  their  carriages. 

The  thousands  of  citizens  who  lined  the  sidewalks  as  the  cortege 
advanced  showed  the  same  reverence  manifested  when  it  had  passed 
down  Broadway. 

A  turn  was  made  into  Park  row  and  then  the  passage  of  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge  was  begun.  The  police  regiment  wheeled  smartly  to  the  roadway. 
By  direction  of  the  engineer  the  policemen  were  instructed  to  break  the 
cadence  of  their  steps  occasionally,  as  regular  vibration  is  avoided  on 
all  such  structures.  Across  the  bridge  the  Mayor  had  gone  thousands 
of  times  on  his  daily  walks.  Many  of  the  attendants  there  were  known 
to  him  personally.  There  were  one  thousand  of  the  employees  of  the 
Department  of  Bridges  drawn  up  at  attention  as  the  procession  passed. 

Arrived  in  Brooklyn  the  procession  followed  the  exact  route  the 
Mayor  was  wont  to  take  to  his  home  at  No.  20  Eighth  avenue,  and  then 
branched  off  on  its  way  for  the  interment  in  Greenwood  Cemetery.  The 
Brooklyn  streets  were  crowded,  but  the  hum  of  traffic  was  stilled,  and 
the  progress  of  the  cortege  brought  forth  many  expressions  of  respect 
and  reverence.  Twenty  thousand  spectators  had  been  gathered  near 
the  Manhattan  end  of  the  Bridge,  and  fully  fifty  thousand  were  packed 
about  the  Borough  Hall  in  Brooklyn. 

Near  the  home  of  the  late  Mayor  many  school  children  were  gath- 
ered, the  principals  having  dismissed  them  early,  so  that  they  might 
have  the  opportunity  of  witnessing  the  parade.  The  boys  stood  on 
the  curb  with  hats  removed,  evincing  a  deep  and  personal  interest  in 
the  obsequies. 


CROWDS  239 

When  the  procession  entered  Greenwood  Cemetery  the  mounted 
police  were  drawn  up  in  a  double  line  along  the  roadway  leading  to  the 
Gaynor  family  plot,  and  between  these  lines  the  funeral  cortege  passed. 
The  low  hills  of  the  cemetery  were  black  with  the  thousands  that  had 
gathered  there  from  all  parts  of  Brooklyn.  A  cordon  of  police  kept  the 
spectators  at  some  distance  from  the  plot,  where  the  coffin  was  carried 
to  the  grave  between  two  rows  formed  by  the  honorary  pallbearers. 

No  freshly  dug  earth  showed  at  the  grave,  which  was  the  first  to 
be  opened  in  the  plot.  A  mantle  of  finely  cut  cedar  sprigs  from  the 
cemetery's  evergreens  lay  over  the  newly  turned  clay,  a  darker  green 
than  the  grass  around.  At  the  bottom  of  the  grave  the  cedar  formed  a 
soft  flooring.  A  brief  benediction  was  pronounced  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Frank 
W.  Page.  As  the  coffin  was  lowered  the  honorary  pallbearers  stood  at 
one  side  of  the  grave,  while  at  the  other  were  the  members  of  Mayor 
Gaynor's  family. 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly  at  that  time,  and  so  profound  a  still- 
ness reigned  that  the  rustling  of  the  trees,  stirred  by  a  fresh  breeze 
from  New  York  Bay,  could  be  faintly  heard,  and  to  this  gentle  music 
Mayor  Gaynor  was  laid  to  rest  on  the  fragrant  cedar  boughs. 

A  detail  of  police  remained  at  the  plot  after  the  crowds  had  dispersed, 
and  early  in  the  evening  Captain  Arthur  Carey,  of  the  Fourth  avenue 
police  station,  received  an  order  from  Headquarters  to  place  two  police- 
men at  the  grave,  this  to  constitute  a  permanent  tour,  day  and  night, 
until  further  orders.  This  was  done,  it  was  said,  to  prevent  the  too 
close  presence  of  the  curious  and  to  guard  against  vandals. 

Another  funeral  procession  arrived  at  Greenwood  Cemetery  at  the 
same  time  as  that  of  Mayor  Gaynor.  It  was  that  of  Edgar  Best,  four 
years  old,  who  died  at  No.  247  East  Twenty-third  street,  Manhattan,  on 
Friday,  of  pneumonia.  This  hearse  and  its  three  carriages  waited  for 
two  hours  at  another  gate,  and  then  the  same  policemen  who  had 
escorted  the  Mayor's  body  guided  this  little  cortege  to  an  open  grave 
within  fifteen  feet  of  the  Gaynor  plot.  Hundreds  of  those  who  had 
seen  the  coffin  of  the  Mayor  lowered  into  the  ground  stayed  to  mourn 
with  the  parents  of  the  child. 

Traffic  on  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  was  halted  as  the  procession  crossed, 
and  so  numerous  were  those  who  followed  the  catafalque  on  foot  that 
all  the  pedestrian  mourners  were  ordered  to  break  step  to  lessen  the 
strain  on  the  bridge  roadway.    The  police  cavalry  escort  after  crossing 


240  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

the  bridge  formed  in  column  twelve  abreast,  and  this  formation  was 
maintained  until  the  cemetery  was  reached.  After  passing  Borough  Hall 
square  most  of  the  delegations  and  organizations  that  had  followed  the 
procession  disbanded  on  reaching  Hoyt  street,  but  a  long  line,  including 
hundreds  of  city  employees,  continued  all  the  way  to  the  cemetery. — 
John  Walker  Harrington,  in  Neiu  York  Herald 

Editor's  Note.  In  the  story  of  Mayor  Gaynor's  funeral,  with  its  majestic 
lead,  the  reverential  attitude  of  the  crowd  is  communicated,  so  that  the  reader 
stands  also  with  bared  head.  An  appreciation  of  the  religious  side  of  Mayor 
Gaynor's  life  is  in  keeping  with  the  solemn  atmosphere  of  the  busy  streets  as 
the  funeral  cortege  moves  along.  A  painstaking  care  for  detail  betokens  the 
experienced  reporter.  A  good  touch  is  the  presence  of  the  school  children 
along  the  curb,  the  boys  standing  with  caps  in  hand.  The  quiet  and  peace  of 
a  Sabbath  afternoon  are  felt  in  that  last  moment  at  the  grave.  The  child's 
simple  funeral  at  the  last  is  introduced  to  present  a  contrast  to  that  of  Mayor 
Gaynor.  It  is  touched  with  delicacy  and  a  feeling  for  the  parents'  grief.  The 
story  blends  news  and  heart-interest  with  a  picturesque  description  of  march- 
ing thousands,  gray  buildings,  blue  sky,  and  the  somber  close  of  a  great 
career.    It  contains  infinitely  more  than  an  ordinary  news  report. 


THOUSANDS  PAY  CASH   FOR  GLIMPSE  OF  SOCIALIST 
CONGRESSMAN 

When  more  than  10,000  throats  had  been  frazzled  and  stricken  next 
door  to  dumb  by  more  than  ten  minutes  of  steady  cheering — and,  believe 
it  from  Xanthippe,  cheering  lasting  a  shade  under  eleven  minutes  listens 
much  longer  than  it  reads  —  yesterday  afternoon  at  Congressman-elect 
Meyer  London's  coming-out  party  in  Madison  Square  Garden,  the  first 
Socialist  to  be  elected  to  Congress  from  New  York  waved  his  hand  and 
almost  obtained  silence. 

He  started  to  speak  to  the  Socialists  that  had  gathered  to  celebrate 
for  him  and  his  election.    Then  the  cheering  started  all  over  again. 

Gasping  girls  surged  under  the  eaves  of  the  high,  red-splattered 
platform  and  pelted  him  with  feminine  aim  and  posies  that  scattered 
petals  as  they  struck  the  great  floral  pieces,  gifts  of  labor,  which  were 
standing  on  either  side  of  the  East  Side's  idol.  Owners  of  throats  long 
past  utterance  went  to  the  other  anatomical  extreme  and  stamped  heels 
on  the  floors  from  arena  to  topmost  galleries,  until  the  roll  of  thunderous 


CROWDS  241 

pounding  roared  a  bass  accompaniment  to  the  screams  of  ecstasy  coming 
from  the  men  and  women,  youths  and  girls,  standing  on  the  chairs  waving 
thousands  of  scarlet  pennants. 

From  far-off  vague  points  out  in  the  uproar  rose  the  bark  of  college 
yells.  A  brass  band  was  slamming  out  the  "  Marseillaise,"  and  those 
close  enough  to  the  stage  to  hear  it  made  a  mighty  chorus  of  the  words. 
Then  the  brass  swung  off  to  a  quick  but  somber  tune  in  minor  key,  and 
the  voices  of  women  who  had  been  singing  the  "  Marseillaise"  broke. 

"  That  march  song,"  said  one  to  the  reporter  between  sobs,  "  is  the 
song  of  the  revolution  they  sing  back  home  when  they  're  marched 
away  forever  to  Siberia." 

So  you  see  the  greatest  political  meeting  of  the  season  and  at  least 
one  of  the  most  tumultuous  political  meetings  of  any  season  since  Big 
Tom  Foley  licked  Paddy  Divver  was  n't  altogether  a  Socialist  meeting. 
Primarily,  it  was  an  East  Side  meeting  plus  a  personal  outburst  for 
Congressman-elect  London,  an  East  Side  meeting  that  included  shouters 
from  miles  above  the  Twelfth  district  to  the  furthest  north  East  Side, 
as  the  long  line  of  Fourth  avenue  cars  that  headed  north,  all  jammed 
and  all  a-flutter  with  pennants,  after  the  meeting  proved. 

Of  course  there  were  on  the  platform  literary  and  artistic  patriots  such 
as  Jesse  Lynch  Williams,  Mrs.  John  Sloan,  Art  Young,  Ernest  Poole, 
Algernon  Lee,  who  was  chairman  of  the  meeting,  and  others  who 
might  be  listed  as  simon-pure  Socialists  even  more  properly  than  as 
East  Siders.  Also  socialism  and  its  Twelfth  district  triumph  took  up 
the  greater  part  of  all  the  speeches  which  were  intelligible  to  the  press 
gallery  and  perhaps  a  great  part  of  the  speeches  in  Yiddish  too. 

Nevertheless  the  keynote  of  the  uproar  was  struck  by  Morris  Hillquit 
when  he  said  an  instant  before  one  of  the  countless  vocal  explosions  of 
the  day : 

"  Comrades  —  there  is  but  one  Congressman  in  the  city  of  New 
York  who  has  to  hire  Madison  Square  Garden  to  hold  a  Sunday  after- 
noon reception  to  his  friends  —  our  Congressman  —  Meyer  London." 
[Windows  threatened  with  compound  fractures.] 

Remember,  too,  that  the  prostrating  ebullition  which  began  to  shake 
the  building  when  Mr.  London  came  upon  the  platform  at  5.37  o'clock 
P.M.,  and  ended  after  a  fashion  at  5.47.40  and  then  started  all  over  again, 
came  from  an  audience  that  had  been  trying  to  yell  its  collective  heads 
off  and  sing  its  throats  to  ribbons  since  early  afternoon.    What  they 


242  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

would  have  accomplished  vocally  if  they  had  started  in  quite  fresh  voiced 
to  greet  the  Congressman-elect  cannot  be  so  much  as  guessed  at. 

The  estimate  of  more  than  10,000  noise  makers  present  is  based  on 
the  officially  listed  seating  capacity  of  the  Garden  when  chairs  pave  the 
arena  floor  as  well  as  boxes,  balconies  and  galleries.  The  seating  capacity 
is  placed  at  12,243.  C)ne  had  to  peer  about  sharply  to  find  vacant  seats 
yesterday,  the  only  noticeably  bare  spot  being  a  small  part  of  the  far, 
or  Fourth  avenue,  end  of  one  of  the  balconies. 

It 's  worthy  of  note  that,  after  the  first  blast  of  cheering  lasting  ten 
minutes  and  forty  seconds  which  greeted  Mr.  London  and  the  relapse 
that  began  at  his  first  words  had  died  down,  thousands  of  the  faithful 
quickly  began  to  think  that  too  much  was  plenty. 

The  very  first  minute  that  the  Congressman-elect  started  in  on  his  set 
speech  a  nervous  shuffling  began  which  surged  into  a  rumble  and  then  a 
dull  roar.  It  was  the  crowd.  One  would  have  thought  from  their  enthu- 
siasm of  an  earlier  minute  that  the  10,000  now  would  quiet  down  and 
settle  themselves  to  hear  what  their  hero  had  to  say. 

But  instead  they  began,  in  the  language  of  the  'alls,  to  "  walk 
out  on  him  "  at  his  very  first  sentence.  He  was  speaking  less  than 
a  minute  when  so  great  was  the  racket  of  men  and  women  stamping 
down  the  stairways  of  galleries  or  across  the  floor  of  the  building,  all 
making  toward  exits  and  fresh  air  and  food,  Mr.  London  had  to  call 
quits  himself. 

He  cried  out  more  than  once,  his  voice  scarcely  reaching  fifty  feet 
because  of  the  drone  of  voices  and  the  tramp  of  departing  feet,  that  it 
was  "  impossible  to  make  a  speech  on  account  of  the  noise,"  and  there- 
fore he  had  to  chop  off  his  address.  It  must  be  said,  however,  that  many 
who  rumbled  down  from  the  galleries  and  others  in  arena  seats  were 
noisy  because  they  were  trying  to  crowd  close  to  the  platform  the  better 
to  hear  him. 

These  — ■  a  good  crowd  for  an  average  theater,  but  only  a  handful  in 
the  Garden — massed  themselves  in  front  of  the  stage  and  listened  atten- 
tively .to  the  end  when  they  were  n't  applauding  the  Congressman-elect 
extravagantly.  But  the  thousands  that  had  surged  out  left  a  great 
expanse  of  empty  seats  for  him  to  talk  to  which  a  few  minutes  before 
had  been  black,  cheering  humanity. 

Any  other  party,  or  even  a  combination  of  parties,  would  have  been 
proud  to  gather  together  a  throng  such  as  the  Socialists  had  yesterday 


CROWDS  243 

for  a  mass  meeting  that  really  was  a  mass  meeting.  In  the  same  build- 
ing the  older  parties  have  often  tried  it  and  failed,  and  admission  to  the 
so-called  mass  meetings  of  the  older  parties  is  free. 

The  crowd  that  filled  more  than  five  sixths  of  the  Garden  at  yester- 
day's powwow  had  actually  paid  to  get  into  the  political  meeting.  Twenty- 
five  cents  it  cost  each  of  more  than  5000  Socialists  on  the  main  floor 
for  a  seat,  and  those  higher  up  paid  1 5  cents  each. 

Not  only  that,  but  how  long  do  you  think  it  would  take  to  empty  the 
Garden  if  in  the  middle  of  oratorical  efforts  to  save  the  nation  one  of 
the  speakers  would  announce  to,  say,  a  Tammany  mass  meeting  that 
"a  collection  will  now  be  taken  up  while  the  band  plays".? 

That 's  how,  in  more  forceful  words,  Comrade  Jim  Larkin  of  Dublin 
—  Jim  of  the  strongly  modeled  face  and  even  stronger  voice  encasing 
more  than  six  feet  of  Irish  labor  leader,  who  was  imprisoned  during  the 
Dublin  railroad  strike  and  landed  here  as  recently  as  election  day  — 
wound  up  his  oration  before  Mr.  London  came  on  the  job. 

"  Now,  comrades,"  concluded  the  broad-shouldered  Jim  in  a  rich 
brogue  that  is  a  sort  of  Irish-Cockney  duet  all  by  itself,  "  you  've  made 
noise  enough,  now  show  what  you  '11  do  for  the  cause.  While  the  baskets 
are  being  passed  among  you  wrap  up  a  shilling  —  I  mean  a  dime  — 
in  a  hundred  dollar  bill,  every  one  of  you,  and  drop  it  in. 

"  How  many  of  you  present  have  hundred  dollar  bills  ?  What  ? 
Not  a  hand  up  ?  Why  don't  you  do  as  the  capitalists  do  ?  "  —  this  with  a 
final  shout  —  "  Go  out  and  get  it !  I  've  been  asked  by  the  chairman  to 
ask  you  now,  when  the  baskets  are  passed,  to  do  something  better  than 
yell.    Put  up  or  shut  up  !  " 

The  laughter  and  applause  showed  that  they  felt  it  impossible  to  shut 
up.  However,  they  put  up,  and  the  dimes  and  nickels  and  quarters  tin- 
kled into  the  baskets  as  black-eyed  girls,  to  whom  the  broad  red  sashes 
were  very  becoming,  passed  through  the  crowd  by  the  hundreds  while 
the  band  for  the  'steenth  time  waded  into  the  "  Marseillaise  "  to  stir 
up  the  bumps  of  generosity. 

And  the  same  crowd,  after  buying  admission  tickets,  had  bought  lav- 
ishly from  the  same  girls  earlier.  The  girls  had  industriously  peddled  red 
flags,  red  pennants,  red  pamphlets,  copies  of  the  Call  and  the  Masses  and 
cardoads  of  Socialist  "  literature  "  all  the  afternoon,  until  about  all  the  in- 
side of  the  Garden  was  red  except  for  the  white  stripes  and  blue  field  of 
the  lone  flag  of  the  United  States  peeping  shyly  out  from  among  the 


244  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

red  banners  of  Socialist  trade  unions  hanging  from  almost  every  foot 
of  the  interior  suitable  for  decoration. 

The  favorite  indoor  sport  on  the  rostrum  up  to  the  time  Mr.  London 
appeared  toward  dusk  was  the  game  called  putting  Tammany  Hall  flat 
on  its  back.  Making  Tammany  feel  positively  crestfallen  was  almost  as 
popular  as  whooping  things  up  for  socialism. 

In  justice  both  to  the  speakers  and  to  Tammany,  however,  it  must 
be  said  that  none  of  the  orators  called  Tammany  Hall  or  its  members 
a  single  harsher  name  throughout  the  jubilation  than  the  following : 
"  thugs,"  "  vile  gangsters,"  "  herders  of  cutthroats,"  '"  a  bullet-headed 
machine,"  "  low-browed  gunmen  "  and  "  an  Augean  stable  "  —  not  harsh 
enough,  you  see,  to  turn  a  hair  of  a  really  experienced  Tammany  district 
worker. 

Chairman  Algernon  Lee,  Morris  Hillquit,  Editor  Abraham  Karlin  of 
Fonvard  and  other  speakers  always  were  dignified  in  their  remarks,  as, 
it  goes  without  saying,  was  Mr.  London  when  he  spoke.  But  whenever 
the  youthful  orators  of  the  East  Side  began  to  get  their  oratorical  strides 
and  massed  center  and  right  and  left  wings  for  a  final  drive,  then  the 
ears  of  certain  gentlemen  not  present  should  have  burned  if  they  heard 
what  was  being  said  —  and  Fourteenth  street  was  n't  too  far  below  the 
Garden  at  Twenty-sixth  street  yesterday  afternoon  at  certain  stages  to 
hear  the  words  of  the  fiery  tongued. 

Those  close  enough  to  hear  Mr.  London  during  the  stampede  know 
that  among  other  things  he  said  that  he  believed  his  admirers  present 
"  exaggerated  the  importance  of  the  event,"  meaning  his  election,  which 
they  had  assembled  to  celebrate. 

"  The  election  of  a  Congressman,"  he  went  on,  "  is  not  the  most  im- 
portant thing  that  has  happened  in  the  Socialist  movement.  It  is  far 
more  important  that  believers  in  a  political  democracy  and  an  industrial 
democracy  must  understand  that  to  have  these  we  must  have  an  intellec- 
tual democracy. 

"  I  expect  to  show  Congress  one  thing  not  on  the  Socialist  program 
—  to  -show  them  a  Jew  that  is  not  what  the  bigoted  among  them 
suppose  a  Jew  to  be.  [Applause.]  I  am  sure  that  the  fairness  of  the 
American  people  will  be  the  cause  of  my  getting  a  hearing,  and  I  shall 
not  abuse  the  privilege. 

"  You,  my  comrades,"  he  cried  when  the  noise  of  the  army  of  retreat 
was  bringing  loud,  sibilant  "  sssssshs !  "  and  expressions  of  impatience 


CROWDS  245 

from  those  about  him  who  wanted  to  hear,  "  you  are  expert  noise  makers, 
but  you  are  poor  organizers.    Organize,  organize,  or  you  will  get  nowhere. 

"  Join  the  army  of  emancipation,  the  army  that  will  accomplish  what 
we  are  trying  to  do  —  not  by  noise,  above  all  not  by  violence,  but  by 
force  of  intelligence."    [Long  applause.] 

Besides  the  speakers  mentioned  there  were  fervid  orations,  some  of 
them  in  Yiddish,  from  Jacob  Panken,  William  Karlin,  H.  Winchewsky, 
known  as  "  the  grandfather  of  the  Socialist  movement  in  England," 
Benjamin  Feigenbaum  and  a  group  of  speeches  from  Algernon  Lee. 

The  only  happening  of  the  day  that  spoiled  anybody's  whole  afternoon 
was  a  ruling  made  late  in  the  meeting  that  all  the  minor  Socialist  orators 
not  listed  here  who  were  champing  at  the  bit  or  straining  at  the  leash, 
or  whatever  it  was  that  had  them  all  wrought  up  while  waiting  to  ad- 
dress the  American  people,  positively  must  make  their  speeches  in  five 
minutes'  time. 

Several  of  these  youthful  silver-tongued  really  tried  to  make  a  Social- 
ist speech  not  more  than  fifteen  minutes  long  at  the  outside,  but  failed 
miserably.  Several  said  later  that  it  can't  be  done.  —  Frank  Ward 
O'Malley,  in  New  York  Sun 

Editor's  Note.  The  rampant  enthusiasm  of  this  great  Socialist  gathering, 
assembled  to  do  honor  to  the  first  congressman  elected  by  the  Socialists  in 
New  York,  has  been  recorded  with  the  fidelity  of  a  phonographic  record.  It 
is  more  than  a  volume  of  riotous  cheering,  however ;  the  reporter  has  included 
little  snatches  of  color  and  sketched  scenes  and  incidents  with  a  sure  hand.  He 
has  been  too  busy  watching  that  vast  throng  —  one  feels,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye  —  to  take  any  part  in  the  jollificadon.  He  has  been  an  amused  bystander, 
but  also  a  discerning  interpreter.  The  capacity  of  the  Madison  Square  Garden 
does  not  lead  him  into  exaggeration ;  he  sets  down  the  fact  that  the  audito- 
rium contains  12,243  seats,  and  that  there  were  few  vacant  chairs.  In  spite  of 
the  hubbub  the  reporter  coolly  records  some  of  the  disjointed  sentences  uttered 
by  the  speakers.  He  remains  entirely  undismayed  by  the  noise  of  clamoring 
thousands.  He  even  times  the  length  of  the  cheering.  The  story  is  a  vigorous, 
graphic,  intensely  dramatic  report  of  a  notable  meeting. 


246  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


PANIC  SWEEPS  CITY  WHEN   DAM   IS  REPORTED  OUT 

"  The  storage  dam  has  burst ."' 

Panic  that  froze  men's  blood  in  fear ;  panic  that  in  some  instances 
paralyzed  legs  and  arms,  and  in  others  spurred  them  into  abnormal 
activity ;  panic  that  swept  like  a  flame  through  fields  of  parched  grass ; 
panic  that  halted  business,  drove  thousands  into  streets,  crowded  street 
cars,  caused  horses  to  be  lashed  to  top  speed  and  automobiles  to  be 
driven  at  full  engine  power — sprang  into  being  almost  instantly  as 
these  words  "  The  storage  dam  has  burst !  "  struck  upon  the  ears  of 
excited  tens  of  thousands  in  the  business  section  of  Columbus  yesterday 
afternoon. 

There  followed  a  sight  which  baffles  description.  It  was  an  experience 
without  parallel  in  the  history  of  the  city.  An  ashen  gray  mantled  the 
faces  of  thousands.  Information  was  exchanged  in  short,  hoarse  whispers. 
Women  in  paroxysms  of  excitement  that  bordered  upon  hysteria  clambered 
on  all  sorts  of  vehicles,  pleaded  with  drivers  of  speeding  automobiles  to 
take  them  aboard.   Fear  lent  wings  to  hurrying  feet.    The  dam  had  burst ! 

The  people  of  the  city,  one  third  of  which  was  inundated  by  flood, 
accepted  without  question  the  report  that  the  great  concrete  structure 
six  miles  north  of  Columbus  had  let  go  its  granite  foundations  and  that 
millions  of  tons  of  tumbling  water  were  rushing  cityward  to  add  their 
might  to  the  yellow  waste  that  already  had  engulfed  everything  on  the 
west  river  bank  and  which  had  encroached  a  little  towards  the  east. 

That  all  the  millions  upon  millions  of  gallons  of  water  impounded 
behind  the  dam  could  add  but  an  inch  or  two  to  the  general  level  in 
the  business  district  seemed  to  have  occurred  to  only  a  few  in  all  that 
vast  panic-spurred  throng. 

Crowds  flocked  to  the  State  House.  Before  some  of  the  officials  were 
aware  of  the  report,  they  had  overrun  the  place.  Many  sought  to  climb 
to  the  dome  for  safety.    Others  choked  entrances  to  tall  buildings. 

"  Make  for  the  high  ground  1  "  was  the  suggestion  flashed  from  man 
to  man  on  the  streets.  "  Higher  ground  "  for  almost  everyone  meant 
"  home,"  unless  "  home  "  happened  to  be  on  the  stricken  West  Side. 

In  instant  response  to  the  cry,  police  officers  rushed  into  stores  and 
office  buildings  to  reiterate  the  alarm.  In  a  twinkling  the  streets  became 
a  tangled  jam  of  men  and  women,  who  had  abandoned  desk  and  counter 


CROWDS  247 

to  seek  places  of  safety.  With  electric  rapidity  the  thought  and  the 
accompanying  horror  communicated  itself  to  everyone,  young  and  old. 
A  man  rode  up  High  street  shouting  "  The  dam  has  burst ! "  at  the 
top  of  his  lungs,  lashing  his  mount  as  he  cantered  by. 

No  one  stopped  to  inquire  into  the  reliability  of  the  report.  A  few 
wiseacres  reasoned  that  even  if  it  were  so  the  water  would  not  be  in 
sufficient  volume  to  reach  beyond  High  street.  These,  however,  were  in 
a  sad  minority.  Almost  to  a  man,  people  took  to  their  heels  in  blind 
desperation. 

With  a  rush  that  tumbled  several  off  their  feet,  hundreds  of  officials 
and  citizens  fled  from  the  city  prison.  The  building  was  deserted  in  three 
minutes.  Twelve-story  buildings  in  High  street  were  quickly  emptied. 
Soldiers,  with  guns,  forced  people  from  the  houses  along  Scioto  and 
Front  streets,  adjacent  to  the  big  jail.  Horses  released  from  stables,  and 
Troop  B  horses,  given  their  freedom,  plunged  madly  up  Town  street  to 
High,  adding  confusion  to  an  eddying  torrent  of  people  and  vehicles. 
From  every  direction  rang  the  cry  :  "  Run  for  your  lives !  The  dam  's 
broken !  " 

Police  patrols  and  military  ambulances,  laden  with  the  sick,  dashed 
by,  drivers  shouting  as  they  lashed  their  horses.  Many  more  sick  people 
were  carried  to  high  ground  on  the  backs  of  friends  and  relatives. 

From  Front  and  Town  streets,  looking  north  and  south  as  far  as  eyes 
could  traverse,  snorting,  panic-stricken  horses  were  to  be  seen  running 
to  the  elevation  of  High  street  and  further  to  the  east.  Goaded  by 
terror,  thousands  beseiged  the  City  Hall ;  some  sought  the  upper  floors 
for  safety. 

In  the  North  Side  of  the  city,  crazed  residents  fled  pell-mell  in  all 
directions.    Many  left  their  houses  wide  open.    Scores  of  women  swooned. 

The  instant  the  report  was  received  at  the  city  prison.  Sergeant  Church, 
Detective  Lester  and  Wagonmen  Benington  and  Fulk  rushed  in  a  patrol 
auto  to  the  Godman  Guild,  in  West  Goodale  street,  where  they  took 
out  all  the  children.  Then  they  warned  the  residents  of  that  section, 
sending  them  all  to  the  Railway  Y.M.C.A.,  which  soon  overflowed  with 
the  crowd.  People  afraid  to  go  to  their  homes  stood  for  three  hours  in 
North  High  street,  packing  the  street  from  curb  to  curb.  Families  were 
broken  up.    Weeping  and  cries  of  alarm  made  High  street  a  bedlam. 

When  the  warning  reached  Captain  P.  B.  Monypeny  and  Sergeant 
Nichols  of  the  National  Guard,  who  were  at  the  flooded  T.  &  O.  C. 


248  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Station,  they  half  swam,  half  waded  to  solid  ground,  then  ran  at  top  speed 
for  safety.   Hundreds  of  volunteer  rescue  workers  fled  from  the  West  Side. 

Only  officers  and  the  militia  guard  remained  at  Town  and  Front 
streets.  Automobiles  from  the  Rich  Street  Bridge  sped  through  Scioto 
street,  then  turned  east  in  Town  street.  Ten  machines  ran  abreast,  or 
one  or  two  feet  behind,  when  the  turn  was  made  into  High.  Hundreds 
of  people,  seized  with  fear,  rushed  like  a  helpless  herd  before  the  fast 
approaching  autos  and  narrowly  escaped  being  run  down,  maimed  or 
killed.    Following  the  machines  clattered  the  horses,  adding  to  the  terror. 

Men  and  women  stationed  in  the  middle  of  the  Rich  Street  Bridge 
suffered  most  acutely.  Some  had  passed  two  days  and  a  night  perched 
in  the  tops  of  houses,  and  were  thoroughly  soaked  and  chilled.  These 
people  were  loaded  into  autos  and  brought  to  High  street.  At  the  time 
of  the  warning  many  inhabitants  of  the  West  Side  believed  that  the 
Rich  Street  Bridge  had  gone  down  with  the  rushing  waters  that  swept 
their  homes  to  destruction.  When  this  report  flashed  along  the  line  it 
threw  these  people  into  an  ungovernable  terror. 

North,  east,  west  and  south,  wherever  the  report  "  The  dam  has  burst !  " 
found  its  way,  the  afternoon  was  filled  with  anguish,  despair  and  flight. 
In  ten  minutes  the  first  rumor  had  swept  like  a  whirlwind.  It  crossed 
the  waters  to  the  West  Side,  knee-deep  in  flood,  and  brought  hundreds 
of  curious  spectators  back  to  the  city. 

But  it  was  all  a  false  alarm.  In  another  ten  minutes  the  report  was 
denied.  Additional  proof  came  pouring  in  as  people  came  to  their  senses. 
One  man  called  up  the  office  of  the  dam  keeper.  The  answer  came  that 
the  water  was  pouring  over  the  big  abutment  and  that  there  was  no 
chance  of  it  giving  way. 

Who  was  responsible  for  the  report  that  the  dam  had  let  go .''  Why 
did  police  and  militiamen  assist  in  spreading  the  report  ?  These  are 
questions  Columbus  citizens  would  like  to  have  answered.  The  report 
of  the  dam's  breaking,  it  was  ascertained  last  night,  was  first  given  by 
Orderly  Bryan,  of  the  Second  Ambulance  Corps,  who  raced  down  High 
street  on  a  motor  cycle,  shouting  the  news,  and  by  Trumpeter  R.  I. 
Culbertson,  of  the  Second  Brigade  Headquarters,  both  of  them  acting 
under  the  orders  of  Lieutenant  Colonel  Hall,  of  Cincinnati,  assistant 
surgeon  general  of  the  National  Guard. 

"  I  was  told  of  the  dam's  breaking  by  Major  George  P.  Zwerner," 
said  Lieutenant  Colonel  Hall.    "  He  said  the  people  in  the  vicinity  of 


CROWDS  249 

the  West  Side  were  panic-stricken.  I  immediately  called  out  to  Orderly 
Bryan,  '  Get  on  a  motor  cycle,  and  warn  those  people  as  quick  as  the 
Almighty  will  let  you !  The  storage  dam  has  broken  ! '  I  then  ordered 
Trumpeter  Culbertson  to  go  to  the  river  and  sound  a  recall  for  the 
guardsmen  on  both  sides  of  the  stream.  I  do  not  know  who  started 
the  rumor." 

Nobody  could  be  found  in  Columbus  last  night  willing  to  assume 
responsibility  for  starting  the  cry  "The  dam  has  burst!"  —  a  cry  that 
converted  Columbus  into  a  stricken  Messina,  with  its  inhabitants  fleeing 
before  the  path  of  an  avenging  fate. 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  knew  who  started  the  rumor,"  declared  Mayor 
George  J.  Karb.  "  I  have  exhausted  all  my  resources  and  yet  I  cannot 
find  the  deluded  creature  who  bawled  the  news.  It  only  shows  what 
panic  will  do  once  you  start  it  going."  —  T.  T.  Frankenberg,  in 
Ohio  State  Jownal 

Editor's  Note.  This  recital  of  a  panic  that  ensued  because  of  a  report, 
"  The  dam  is  broken  !  "  is  a  good  example  of  how  the  crowd-mind  is  influenced 
by  an  elemental  instinct ;  in  this  case,  fear.  The  rush  of  people  for  safety  swept 
over  the  entire  town.  Calm  judgment  disappeared  in  the  necessity  for  flight. 
The  report  came  on  the  third  day  of  a  devastating  flood  that  swept  over  the 
banks  of  the  Scioto  into  the  West  Side.  Everybody  was  tired  and  worn  out. 
Street-car  service  was  almost  at  a  standstill.  One  power  house  was  running. 
Columbus  was  cut  off  from  food  supplies.  Many  people  had  been  up  from 
thirty-six  to  sixty  hours,  without  sleep.  A  general  high-tensioned  nervousness 
gripped  the  city.  At  this  juncture  the  report  swept  through  the  streets,  finding 
tinder  to  give  it  flame. 

Attention  is  called  to  the  lead  in  the  foregoing  narrative.  The  word  "  panic  " 
is  driven  home  relentlessly,  and  the  wild  excitement  is  admirably  caught  in  a 
group  of  forceful  sentences.  The  rest  of  the  story  is  a  series  of  rapidly  moving 
films,  caught  at  various  street  corners  and  around  public  buildings.  The  news 
was  gathered  by  six  men,  and  woven  together  by  another  man.  This  excerpt 
has  been  much  abbreviated  to  satisfy  the  exigencies  of  the  book.  As  it  stands, 
it  represents  the  all-inclusive  response  of  primitive  instincts  to  a  warning  of 
"  The  dam  has  burst !    Run  for  your  lives !  " 


250  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


SUNDAY   FLAYS  OLD   KING   BOOZE 

Hurling  syncopaled  similes,  like  an  unmasked  battery  of  gatling  guns, 
against  the  embattled  cohorts  of  the  liquor  traffic,  shouting,  roaring, 
stamping,  pleading,  bare-armed,  bare-necked,  perspiring,  hatless,  coatless, 
tireless,  gesticulating,  energizing  and  psychologizing  a  mass  of  4500  men, 
so  that  they  leaped  at  his  word  to  their  feet  and  raised  a  mighty  shout 
that  shook  the  rafters  of  Memorial  Hall  and  yelled  disapprobation  upon 
the  effort  to  pass  the  Dean  bill,  Billy  Sunday,  the  evangelist,  last  night 
swayed  a  throng  that  filled  the  structure  to  overflowing.  It  was  only  a 
small  portion  of  the  crowds  which  svarmed  up  and  down  the  streets, 
swelled  two  overflow  meetings,  packed  the  hotels,  preliminary  to  the  open- 
ing of  the  law-enforcement  and  county-option  convention.  This  will 
begin  a  two-day  session  this  morning  at  the  Chamber  of  Commerce 
Auditorium. 

Overflow  meetings  were  held  last  evening  at  the  latter  auditorium  and 
at  Wesley  M.  E.  Church,  but  Sunday  spoke  only  at  Memorial  Hall.  It 
was  estimated  that  between  6000  and  8000  were  turned  away  from 
that  place. 

Not  only  was  ever)'  seat  in  the  auditorium  and  upon  the  stage  taken, 
but  every  available  foot  of  standing  room  in  the  hall  and  in  the  adjoining 
hall  and  foyer  was  taken,  men  stood  in  the  driveways,  striving  to 
catch  the  import  of  the  stentorian  tones  that  penetrated  the  walls  of 
brick  and  the  girders  of  steel. 

For  more  than  an  hour  and  a  half  he  talked,  talked,  or  yelled,  as  men 
have  seldom  talked  or  yelled  in  this  town.  Within  a  few  minutes  he  had 
his  audience  completely  under  his  control.  On  the  least  pretext  it  broke 
into  the  wildest  cheers.  His  utterances  were  not  only  rapid,  but  almost 
cyclonic,  with  a  certain  alliteration  that  caught  the  ear  and  pleased 
the  fancy. 

Before  he  started  to  talk  he  took  off  his  collar  and  tie.  A  few  minutes 
later  he  removed  his  coat,  then  he  peeled  up  his  shirt  sleeves.  His 
veins  stood  out  like  whipcords  upon  his  muscular  neck,  perspiration 
stood  in  beads  upon  his  brow  and,  as  his  physical  activity  increased,  ran 
in  rivulets  from  his  face  as  from  a  blacksmith  at  his  forge. 

He  opened  his  shirt  at  the  neck  so  that  his  leather  lungs  rose  and  fell 
like  those  of  a  trained  athlete.    Up  and  down  the  long  stage  he  walked, 


CROWDS  251 

pranced,  leaped  and  shouted.  He  mounted  a  chair.  The  chair  was  too 
low.  He  mounted  his  reading  table  and  waved  aloft  the  American  flag. 
He  dashed  towards  his  audience,  out  over  the  platform,  out  across  the 
gangway  and  onto  the  organ  and  stood  on  the  quivering  top  of  that  in- 
strument until  he  finished  out  a  rhetorical  period  and  retired  with  his  flag. 

Unbounded  physical  resources  are  written  over  his  features.  Un- 
bounded liberty  with  the  English  language  is  written  in  his  discourse. 
Unbounded  hatred  for  the  liquor  traffic  is  stamped  in  every  act,  word, 
look  and  thought. 

A  picturesque  verbiage,  that  sweeps  from  the  alkali  plains  of  Arizona 
to  the  resorts  of  the  Bowery  for  its  decoration  is  coupled  with  an 
amazing  grasp  of  statistics,  which  he  reels  off  with  a  rapidity  that  stag- 
gers the  most  agile  stenographer. 

By  7  o'clock  every  seat  in  Memorial  Hall  was  filled.  Those  whose 
physical  frames  shrank  from  standing  three  hours  turned  away,but  grad- 
ually even  the  standing  room  all  was  taken  and  the  audience  waited  the 
opening  of  exercises.  At  7.30  a  program  of  volunteer  singing  was  started. 

Later  James  Rice,  former  mayor  of  Canton,  proposed  a  resolution  to 
the  effect  that  the  legislators  had  no  mandate  from  the  people  to  repeal 
the  Rose  Law.  This  was  adopted  with  a  wild  shout.  Former  Governor 
R.  W.  Glenn  of  North  Carolina,  Judge  C.  M.  Seward  of  Newark 
and  others  who  occupied  places  on  the  platform  were  mentioned  as 
speakers  for  the  meetings  today  and  tomorrow,  and  as  they  arose  to 
acknowledge  the  compliment  were  greeted  with  applause. 

The  introduction  by  Judge  A.  Z.  Blair  of  Adams  County  was  brief 
and  was  directed  mainly  to  disprove  the  statement  that  Sunday  comes 
only  on  a  financial  guarantee.  The  introduction  was  made  the  preface 
to  an  appeal  for  a  collection,  which  was  taken  while  music  was  being 
played.  Bishop  David  H.  Moore  led  the  invocation,  which  concluded 
with  the  Lord's  Prayer.  This  welled,  like  the  roar  of  many  waters, 
upward  and  upward. 

Then  came  Sunday.    There  was  no  preliminary  skirmish. 

Like  the  salvo  that  announced  the  opening  of  the  com  show,  which 
shook  all  down-town  windows  yesterday,  his  first  gun  drove  home. 

"  I  am  the  sworn,  eternal,  uncompromising,  everlasting  and  unalterable 
foe  of  the  liquor  traffic ;  I  ask  no  quarter  and  I  give  none." 

The  issues  were  joined,  the  case  made  up,  and  for  the  next  90  minutes 
something  like  15,000  words  flowed,  seethed,  gurgled,  tossed,  echoed  and 


252  .     TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

reechoed  through  the  hall,  damning  to  hell  and  calling  upon  eternal  God 
to  aid  in  the  fight  —  the  battle  against  demon  rum. 

The  audience  was  entirely  male.  There  was  no  mincing  of  words. 
With  almost  sickening  realism,  Sunday  pictured  the  reeling  drunkard, 
the  drink-maddened  maniac,  the  debauched  criminal.  With  no  mock 
modesty  or  other  sort,  he  pictured  the  festering  sores  of  society,  the 
degradation  of  womanhood,  the  ruination  of  home  and  happiness,  all 
attributed  to  rum.  Every  fact  was  hammered  home  with  an  array  of 
figures.    Intermittently,  the  audience  roared  its  approval. 

"  I'm  going  to  fight  'em  all  my  life,  and  before  the  undertaker  comes 
around  to  fill  my  carcass  full  of  embalming  fluid  and  screw  down  the 
casket  lid,  I  think  I  shall  call  my  wife  and  say,  '  Nell,  when  I'm  gone, 
I  want  you  to  call  in  the  butcher  and  the  tanner  and  have  them  strip  the 
skin  from  my  body  and  tan  it  into  leather  and  make  drumheads  out  of 
it,  and  I  want  men  to  go  up  and  down  the  land,  beating  these  drums, 
saying,  "  Billy  Sunday  still  lives  and  gives  the  demon  rum  the  greatest 
run  of  its  life." 

"  Whisky  is  all  right  in  its  place,  but  its  place  is  in  hell,  and  I  want 
to  see  everyone  line  up  and  put  it  in  its  place  as  soon  as  possible. 
Seventy-five  per  cent  of  the  idiots  come  from  intemperate  parents, 
80  per  cent  of  all  our  crime  is  due  to  booze,  90  per  cent  of  all  the 
murders  are  committed  under  the  influence  of  liquor. 

"  The  Democrats  drove  it  out  in  the  South,  the  Republicans  are 
driving  it  out  in  the  North.  If  you  've  got  a  scintilla  of  decency  about 
you,  you've  got  to  line  up  against  it.  The  liquor  traffic  is  worse  than 
war,  it  is  worse  than  pestilence,  it  is  the  mother  of  all  crime. 

"  I  don't  give  three  whoops  in  hell  for  the  man  who  champions  it. 
He  ought  to  be  arrested  for  going  around  disguised  as  a  man.  He  is  so 
low  down  that  he  has  to  reach  up  to  touch  bottom.  Who  foots  the  bill 
for  the  cost  of  this  damnable,  hell-born  business .-'  The  common  people, 
the  working  men.  Who  gets  the  profits  ?  The  brewers,  the  distillers, 
who  feed,  fatten  and  gormandize  on  the  misery  of  man.  The  saloon 
comes  as  near  being  a  rat  hole  where  men  can  dump  their  money  and 
their  manhood,  as  anything  in  the  world. 

"  The  federal  revenue  from  the  liquor  business  is  2  7  cents  per  capita. 
I  say  we  are  a  cheap  skate  gang,  if  we  '11  let  them  buy  us  and  damn  us 
body  and  soul  for  a  hair  cut  and  a  postage  stamp.  If  you  close  every 
saloon,  brewery,  booze  shop  and  grog  joint  on  God's  green  earth,  it 


CROWDS  253 

would  n't  affect  the  price  of  corn  2  cents  on  the  bushel.  If  the  saloon 
business  is  n't  wrong,  there  is  nothing  on  earth  or  In  hell  that  is  wrong. 

"  There  are  1 2,000  saloon  keepers  in  New  York  City  and  8000  of  these 
have  criminal  records.  Mr.  Legislator,  don't  you  feel  proud  when  you 
vote  for  a  dirty,  rotten  business  like  that  ? 

"  The  legislators  won't  do  it.    If  they  do,  their  name  is  Dennis. 

"  You  've  seen  these  boom  editions  that  the  magazines  and  newspapers 
print.  They  tell  all  about  the  commercial  resources  and  advantages  of  a 
city,  but  they  never  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  it  is  a  whisky  town. 

"  All  this  talk  about  the  tariff  and  reciprocity  is  all  right,  but  the  booze 
question  is  the  greatest.  Do  you  know  that  there  is  dumped  into  the 
whisky  hole  in  seven  months  as  much  money  as  it  takes  to  run  the 
whole  United  States  government  for  an  entire  year?  The  man  who 
sells  whisky  is  a  worse  citizen  than  the  murderer  or  the  thief. 

"  The  thief  takes  your  money,  the  saloon  takes  your  character ;  the 
murderer  kills  your  body,  the  saloon  damns  your  soul  and  blights  your 
posterity.  If  we  could  vote  the  saloon  out  tomorrow,  it  would  take 
50  years  to  get  rid  of  the  cripples,  degenerates,  perverts  and  physical 
wrecks  it  has  strewn  over  the  country. 

"  They  say  all  they  want  is  '  personal  liberty.'  Personal  liberty  is  all 
the  tiger  in  the  jungle  wants,  it  is  all  the  anarchist  wants,  it  is  all  the  thief 
wants.  Has  liberty  fallen  so  low  that  I  've  got  to  go  nosing  around  among 
breweries  and  booze  joints  to  find  it .-'  Personal  liberty  shot  down  Lincoln, 
murdered  Garfield  and  struck  down  the  sainted  McKinley.  I  say  to  hell 
with  personal  liberty. 

"I'm  a  rube  of  the  rubes,  a  hayseed  of  the  hayseeds.  I  crawled 
through  sewers  of  experience  and  went  through  the  college  of  hard 
knocks.  I  say  give  the  farmer  a  chance.  If  the  farmer  has  no  right  to 
vote  on  the  city-opinion  question,  then  you  have  no  right  to  tax  him  to 
take  care  of  the  crime  that  the  saloon  produces.  Gambling  houses  and 
brothels  are  so  closely  allied  to  the  saloon  that  when  you  drive  out  the 
one  the  others  have  to  go  too. 

"  You  talk  about  regulating  by  high  license.  You  might  as  well  talk 
about  regulating  a  powder  mill  in  hell.  I  talk  to  you  for  an  hour,  and  in 
that  time  12  men  have  filled  drunkards'  graves. 

"  There  are  enough  drunkard  orphans  to  stretch,  hand  to  hand,  five 
times  around  this  world.  Wipe  out  the  saloons,  and  I  '11  show  you  the 
biggest  revival  of  business  the  world  has  ever  seen." 


254  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

At  this  juncture  Sunday  told  about  a  sober  man  returning  home,  the 
joy  of  the  children,  and  he  broke  out  singing  "  Home,  Sweet  Home." 
The  effect  was  magical.  Men  cheered  madly.  Previously,  at  a  crucial 
point,  he  had  reached  behind  his  reading  desk  and  appeared  with  a  metal 
staff,  by  pressing  a  spring  in  which,  an  American  flag  was  released.  He 
waved  this  about  him  from  time  to  time  in  his  vehement  discourse. 

In  conclusion,  he  arraigned  the  liquor  traffic  as  one  that  could  not 
exist  without  boys,  and  he  brought  out  three  little  fellows  on  the  stage. 
"  You  can't  run  gin  mills  without  boys  any  more  than  you  can  run  a 
sawmill  without  logs.  You  sha'  n't  have  the  boys  of  Columbus  and 
the  boys  of  Ohio,  unless  you  go  over  the  dead  body  of  Billy  Sunday. 
I  would  n't  give  these  three  boys  for  all  the  breweries  in  the  state. 

"  How  many  of  you  feel  like  that  ?  How  many  of  you  want  to  tell 
the  legislature  to  leave  the  Rose  Law  alone  ?  I  want  every  man  in  the 
house  that  feels  that  way  to  get  up  on  his  feet." 

There  was  a  great  shuffle,  9000  feet  moved  as  by  a  common  impulse, 
and  not  a  man  remained  in  his  seat. 

"  God  bless  you,  and  goodby,"  and  the  Billy  Sunday  discourse  was  at 
an  end.  The  throng  surged  toward  the  platform,  after  it  had  given  three 
cheers,  but  he  was  bundled  up  in  his  discarded  garments  and  hurried  to 
his  hotel. 

"  I'm  all  in,"  was  his  remark,  sotto  voce,  as  he  left  the  stage.  — 
T.  T.  Frankenberg,  in  Ohio  ^ate  Journal 

Editor's  Note.  Particular  attention  is  directed  to  the  opening  paragraph 
of  this  story  on  Billy  Sunday  and  his  flaying  of  Old  King  Booze.  In  its  struc- 
ture this  sentence  is  like  a  rhetorical  tower  ready  to  topple  over  from  sheer 
weight.  The  man  who  framed  it  declares  that  he  deliberately  set  out  to  imitate 
one  of  Billy  Sunday's  powerful  onslaughts  against  the  liquor  traffic,  so  that  the 
reader  might  have  a  clear  picture  of  the  excitement  and  turmoil  that  surged 
over  the  audience.  The  Sunday  originality  and  pungency  of  phrase  has  uncon- 
sciously been  caught  by  the  reporter.  This  is  one  of  the  interesdng  corollaries 
in  reporting  one  of  Sunday's  speeches.  In  the  Philadelphia  campaign  corre- 
spondents telegraphed  New  York  papers  that  Billy  Sunday  "  had  scored  two 
more  Home  runs  in  his  spectacular  game  against  Philadelphia's  smug,  self- 
satisfied  church  folk,  and  that  he  did  some  tremendous  '  sdck  work '  against 
the  devil  and  all  Beelzebub's  works." 

The  present  story  is  replete  with  characteristic  side  lights  and  with  striking 
excerpts  from  the  address.  It  beats  with  action  and  crude  force,  so  typical  of 
the  man,  and  is  flavored  with  the  vernacular.  The  reporter's  task,  in  thus  keep- 
ing his  poise  in  the  midst  of  howling,  exciting  men,  was  a  difficult  one. 


CROWDS  255 

GERALDINE   FARRAR  A  FAIRY  CHARMER 

As  it  is  impossible  for  human  nature  not  to  dote  on  fairy  princesses,  so 
it  is  inevitable  that  an  audience  should  fall  in  love  with  Geraldine  Farrar. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  program  last  night  Miss  Farrar  was  charming 
and  her  voice  was  good,  but,  as  the  spell  of  her  sweet,  rich  singing  grew, 
her  personality  and  her  voice  became  inseparable  and  both  were  irresistible. 

At  first  the  fact  that  there  are  greater  singers  and  voices  more  nearly 
perfect  in  the  world  began  to  be  intrusive,  but  as  she  sang  that  fact 
was  forgotten,  and  it  did  not  matter  about  the  other  singers  and  whether 
they  sang  or  not,  for  her  voice  gradually  took  on  a  sirenlike  beauty. 

Miss  Farrar  is  distinctively  American.  In  spite  of  her  French  style  of 
coiffure  and  her  green  Parisian  gown,  the  quick  little  toss  of  the  head, 
the  graceful  freedom  of  manner  and  the  natural  way  she  made  herself 
close  to  the  audience  betrayed  even  a  more  Western  than  Bostonese  charm. 

There  is  no  one  word  that  can  describe  the  kind  of  magic  in  her  smile, 
but  there  is  a  little  flash  and  sparkle  of  humor  and  even  of  mischief  in 
it  that  is  truly  American  —  or  is  it  Irish?  At  any  rate  it  is  the  kind  of  a 
smile  that  plays  havoc  with  men  when  their  hearts  are  affected. 

As  song  followed  song  the  enchantment  grew,  and  at  the  end  had  she 
walked  singing  out  of  the  Garden  of  Eden  and  across  the  sands  of  the 
desert  the  people  would  have  turned  their  backs  on  the  blessed  land 
and  followed  the  voice  —  and  Geraldine. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  numbers  on  the  program  was  Schubert's 
"  Heidenroslein."  The  slightest  variation  of  mood  in  the  verses  was  given 
with  wonderful  accuracy,  and  each  tone  bore  new  riches  of  interpretation. 
The  light  touches  of  dramatic  suggestion  were  as  true  as  the  accents  of 
a  master  actor,  and  often  more  artful. 

Her  enunciation  was  so  good  in  each  language  that  she  sang,  her  art 
so  nearly  perfect,  and  her  poetic  sense  so  sure,  that  such  a  simple  line  as 
"Rose,  Schmetterling,  Sonnenstrahl,"  in  "  Der  Schmetterling,"  by  Franz, 
or"'Un  chant  d'amour,"  in  "Ouvre  tes  Yeux  Bleus,"by  Massenet,  became 
laden  with  all  the  beauty  the  poet  dreamed  it  might  contain  when  he 
froze  the  idea  into  words. 

Her  singing  of  the  aria  "  Un  bel  di  vedremo,"  from  "  Madame 
Butterfly,"  by  Puccini,  revealed  unusual  ability  in  sudden  easy  changes 
from  the  most  passionate  pleading  to  the  most  alluring  of  coquettish 
wiles,  rising  at  times  to  considerable  dramatic  intensity. 


256  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

Coming  back  after  this  number  to  give  an  encore,  she  seated  herself 
at  the  piano  to  play  her  own  accompaniment,  and,  as  her  fingers  lingered 
over  the  keys,  said  with  a  smile,  "  Something  you  have  never  heard 
before,"  then  played  the  opening  bars  of  "  Annie  Laurie."  Her  manner 
pleased,  and  when  she  had  finished  she  had  scored  a  triumph. 

It  is  hard  to  choose  between  the  songs  she  sang,  as  they  were  each  of 
them  the  whole  world  to  the  audience  and  to  the  artist  while  her  voice 
lingered  on  the  melodies.  Before  the  program  was  completed  she  had 
proved  that  she  had  a  great  voice  —  not  great  in  size  or  range,  but 
great  in  its  beauty  and  charm,  in  the  purity  of  its  tone,  in  its  flexibility, 
and  in  the  technique  which  makes  it  so  effective. 

If  Gcraldine  Farrar  ever  comes  to  Seattle  again  every  seat  will  be 
taken  and  standing  room  packed  as  it  was  at  the  Moore  last  night, 
whether  prices  remain  as  high  as  they  were  last  night  or  not,  or  whether 
she  is  under  as  auspicious  patronage  as  that  of  the  Ladies'  Music 
Club  or  not. 

Miss  Farrar  was  assisted  on  the  program  by  Alwin  Schroeder,  violon- 
cellist. In  the  first  few  numbers  that  Mr.  Schroeder  played  he  did  not 
win  the  hearers  away  from  their  intellects.  They  thought  of  the  music 
and  decided  that  it  was  good,  but  he  did  not  make  dreamers  and  world 
builders  of  them,  as  'cello  music  ought  usually  to  do.  His  technique  was  of 
a  high  grade  and  his  playing  was  thoroughly  artistic,  but  his  instrument 
was  not  as  full  and  rich  in  tone  as  a  common,  everyday  music  lover  likes 
to  hear  it.    There  was  not  enough  magic  in  the  bow. 

"Waldesruhe,"  by  Dvorak,  however,  reached  the  hearts  of  the  auditors, 
and  "  Vito,"  a  Spanish  dance  by  Popper,  was  delightfully  played. 

The  work  of  Arthur  Rosenstein  at  the  piano  deserves  much  com- 
mendation. It  was  the  work  of  a  master  of  the  keyboard  and  of  one 
who  knows  what  the  place  of  an  accompanist  is.  His  playing  was 
sufficient  support  for  the  voice  or  the  'cello,  but  did  not  encroach  upon  the 
artistic  rights  of  either.    He  gained  effect  rather  than  made  display. 

After  the  concert  was  over  and  the  last  encore  was  sung  came  the 
dropping  back  to  earth.  Just  ouside  the  entrance  to  the  theater  a  voice 
was  heard  distinguishable  from  the  rest : 

"It  was  simply  terrible  1  " 

Geraldine,  simply  terrible  ?  Impossible. 

But  the  voice  continued  after  a  pause,  "  I  offered  her  a  shoehorn,  but 
she  wouldn't  take  it  off." —  Eugene  AiMmon  Hancock,  in  Seattle  Sun 


CROWDS  257 

Editor's  Note.  The  report  of  the  Geraldine  Farrar  concert  combines  the 
art  of  the  reporter  with  the  function  of  the  musical  review.  Impressions  have 
been  caught  and  an  interpretation  of  the  singer's  offerings  attempted.  The 
reporter  does  not  depart  from  the  straight  road  of  accuracy.  Ecstasy  and 
exaggerated  praise  have  no  place  in  the  criticism.  Feminine  loveliness  and  the 
singing  of  an  old-fashioned  melody  which  captivated  the  audience  are  two  of 
the  high  notes  sounded  in  this  story.  The  style  is  comradely  and  unaffected. 
The  last  paragraph  has  a  caustic  quality  that  many  music  lovers  will  relish. 


XI 

WAR 

The  war  story  is  an  international  one  posted  on  a  huge  bulle- 
tin board  before  which  the  nations  of  the  world  stand  tense.  In 
war  time  there  is  no  unconcerned  public.  All  the  corners  of  the 
world  are  involved.  The  trade  of  two  continents  is  affected  through 
their  exports  and  imports  ;  but  more  than  all  material  considera- 
tions is  the  effect  wrought  upon  «-he  emotions  and  sympathies  of 
a  people,  no  matter  how  far  removed  geographically  or  detached 
politically. 

In  recent  times,  however,  the  public  intelligence  has  been 
repeatedly  betrayed  by  the  meagerness  and  tardiness  of  war 
reports.  It  is  true  that  army  maneuvers  and  the  lists  of  killed 
and  wounded  are  sent  out  by  the  war  offices.  In  this  way  the 
immediate  and  tragic  queries  of  those  intimately  concerned  are 
answered.  This  does  not  satisfy  the  craving  of  those  perhaps  not 
vitally  involved  and  yet  deeply  interested.  Such  a  public  has  the 
right  to  know,  and  it  is  the  duty  of  the  press  to  keep  it  informed. 
The  newspaper  in  war  time,  as  in  peace,  molds  the  thoughts  and 
sentiments  of  a  nation.  The  American  press,  during  the  Great 
War,  implanted  in  the  American  mind  a  distinct  anti-war  convic- 
tion, even  though  it  was  primarily  the  alert  messenger  of  news 
that  makes  history  —  so  alert  indeed  that  it  outran  the  official 
sources  of  information.  The  tragedy  of  war,  the  dumb  grief  of 
those  bereft,  the  shattered  bodies  of  strong  men,  were  emphasized 
more  than  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  battle  or  the  technical 
science  of  warfare.  The  injecting  of  this  human-interest  elicited 
clothing,  food  supplies,  nurses,  surgeons,  all  things  needful  for 
the  victims  of  this  "  highly  specialized  form  of  man  killing." 

The  foreign  press  had  a  more  insistent,  if  not  so  humane,  a 
mission.  Its  duty  was  to  call  forth  a  patriotic  response  to  the 
demands  of  war ;  for  if  this  destructive  game  is  to  be  played  it 

258 


WAR  259 

must  have  recruits,  reenforcements,  arms,  and  financial  support. 
The  constant  stimulation  of  the  printed  page  was  needed  to 
arouse  men  to  their  country's  peril. 

Since  the  Russo-Japanese  War,  when  rigid  censorship  was  placed 
upon  the  war  correspondent,  it  has  been  increasingly  difficult  to 
secure,  write,  and  send  the  full  story  of  trench,  battlefield,  sea, 
and  sky. 

Yet  the  newspaper  must  not  be  a  Baedeker  for  the  enemy,  as  it 
has  been  before  the  days  of  official  censorship,  when  commanders 
often  reUed  upon  accounts  in  the  enemy's  press  to  guide  their 
maneuvers.  As  an  example,  during  the  Great  War  the  British 
war  office  appealed  to  the  patriotism  of  the  British  Press  Bureau, 
enjoining  upon  it  the  duty  of  suppressing  the  avid  news  instinct, 
in  order  that  disclosures  useful  to  the  enemy  might  not  be  made. 
By  professional  self-denial  thrilling  news  was  "killed,"  but  the 
British  Press  Bureau  "  has  not  revealed  the  whereabouts  of  a 
single  ship  or  the  movements  of  a  single  troop."  Other  foreign 
press  bureaus  exercised  the  same  care. 

War  correspondence  is  now  subject  to  army  supervision  and 
cable  censorship.  The  correspondents  are  picked  men  under  strict 
rules,  with  penalties  attached.  Few  men  get  to  the  front  that  they 
may  follow  the  battle  line,  as  they  did  in  the  days  of  Archibald 
Forbes,  Sir  William  Howard  Russell,  Frederic  Villiers,  Charles 
Carleton  Coffin,  James  Creelman,  and  Richard  Harding  Davis. 
To-day  war  correspondents,  with  a  few  notable  exceptions,  must 
rely  upon  conflicting  official  bulletins  of  the  war  offices,  stories  of 
survivors,  eyewitnesses,  refugees,  and  upon  the  mute  testimony  of 
shelled  villages  and  despoiled  cities. 

While  a  correspondent's  war-office  pass  still  gains  entry  in 
some  quarters,  the  unrestricted,  untrammeled  ventures  and  adven- 
tures of  the  old-time  war  correspondent  must  now  be  written  in 
the  past  tense, 

"  Let  me  say  if  those  who  envy  the  war  correspondent  were 
once  brought  into  close  contact  with  all  the  realities  of  war,  if  they 
were  obliged  to  stand  the  chances  of  getting  their  heads  knocked 
off  by  an  unexpected  shell  or  bored  through  with  a  minie  ball,  to 
stand  their  chance  of  being  captured  by  the  enemy,  to  live  on 


26o  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

bread  and  water  and  a  little  of  it,  to  sleep  on  the  ground,  or  on  a 
sack  of  corn,  or  in  a  barn,  with  the  wind  blowing  a  gale  and  the 
snow  whirling  in  drifts  and  the  thermometer  shrunk  to  zero,  and 
then  after  the  battle  is  over  and  the  field  won,  to  walk  among  the 
dying  and  the  dead  and  behold  all  the  ghastly  sights,  to  hear 
all  around  sighs,  groans,  imprecations  and  prayers,  they  would 
be  content  to  let  others  become  the  historians  of  war,"  declared 
Charles  Carleton  Coffin,  famous  Civil  War  correspondent. 

The  following  stories,  secured  by  American  newspaper  men 
despite  obstacles  and  handicaps,  present  a  variety  of  war  corre- 
spondence—  a  stirring  battle,  a  retreat,  a  description  of  Paris  in 
the  wake  of  war,  a  realistic  appreciation  of  an  army  cook,  and 
an  impressionistic  sketch  of  Vienna. 


AN  EYEWITNESS'S  STORY  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF 
WIRBALLEN 

On  the  Firing  Line,  near  Wirballen,  Russian  Poland,  Oct.  8. — 
Via  The  Hague  and  London.  —  At  sundown  tonight,  after  four  days 
of  constant  fighting,  the  German  army  holds  its  strategic  and  strongly 
intrenched  position  east  of  Wirballen. 

As  I  write  this  in  the  glare  of  a  screened  auto  headlight,  several  hun- 
dred yards  back  from  the  German  trenches,  I  can  catch  the  occasional 
high  notes  of  a  soldier  chorus.  For  four  days  the  singers  have  lain 
cramped  in  those  muddy  ditches,  unable  to  move  or  stretch  except  under 
cover  of  darkness.  And  still  they  sing.  They  believe  they  are  on  the 
eve  of  a  great  victory. 

T  reached  the  battlefield  of  Wirballen  shortly  before  daylight,  armed 
with  a  pass  issued  by  the  general  staff  and  accompanied  by  three  officers 
assigned  to  "  chaperon  "  me  and  furnish  technical  information. 

We  had  traveled  three  days  by  auto  and  were  within  three  miles  of 
the  right  wing  of  the  German  position  when  our  machine  broke  down 
and  we  went  ahead  on  foot. 

Today  I  saw  a  wave  of  Russian  flesh  and  blood  dash  against  a  wall 
of  German  steel.  The  wall  stood.  The  wave  broke  —  was  shattered 
and  hurled  back. 


WAR  261 

Rivulets  of  blood  trickled  back  slowly  in  its  wake.  Broken  bloody 
bodies,  wreckage  of  the  wave,  strewed  the  breakers. 

Tonight  I  know  why  correspondents  are  not  wanted  on  any  of  the 
battle  lines.  Descriptions  and  details  of  battles  fought  in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  19 14  don't  make  nice  reading. 

We  struck  the  firing  line  at  a  point  near  the  extreme  right  of  the  Ger- 
man position  shortly  before  daylight  and  breakfasted  with  the  officers 
commanding  a  field  battery. 

Before  the  first  crimsoning  of  the  east  every  man  was  astir.  Fresh 
supplies  of  ammunition  brought  up  during  the  night  were  being  stowed 
away  in  the  caissons  and  cases.  Empty  shells  were  being  thrown  back 
out  of  the  way. 

An  artilleryman  with  a  shovel  went  about  throwing  loose  soil  over  dark, 
slippery  spots  about  one  of  the  guns.  I  saw  shovels  similarly  engaged 
several  times  during  the  day. 

As  daylight  came,  I  saw  that  the  guns  were  on  the  reverse  side  of  a 
hill,  with  their  muzzles  apparently  pointing  directly  up  the  ascending  slope. 

While  I  was  still  marveling  at  the  number  of  details  requiring  atten- 
tion in  this  highly  specialized  business  of  man  killing,  I  was  yanked  out 
of  my  reverie  by  a  weird,  tooth-edging,  spine-chilling,  whistling  screech 
overhead. 

The  fact  that  the  shell  was  from  five  hundred  to  a  thousand  feet  above 
me  and  probably  another  couple  of  thousand  feet  beyond,  before  my  ear 
registered  its  flight,  did  not  prevent  my  ducking  my  head  and  giving 
my  officer  chaperons  the  chance  to  laugh  that  I  had  resolved  not  to 
give  them. 

A  good  many  shells  had  passed  over  my  head  before  I  could  lose 
an  almost  irresistible  desire  to  hug  the  ground. 

For  half  an  hour  the  German  battery  paid  no  attention  to  the  shells 
passing  overhead  and  out  of  range.  Finally  a  soldier  with  a  telephone 
installed  on  an  empty  ammunition  box  began  talking  and  copying 
notes,  which  the  commander  of  the  battery  scanned  hastily. 

A  word  of  command  and  a  lieutenant  galloped  along  the  line  giving 
various  ranges  to  the  different  battery  commanders.  The  crews  leaped 
to  their  positions,  and  the  battery  went  into  action. 

The  firing  continued  for  perhaps  fifteen  minutes,  when  there  was  a 
halt,  more  telephoning,  a  new  set  of  ranges  for  some  of  the  guns  and  a 
resumption  of  firing. 


262  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

The  position  of  the  heavy  German  battery  was  well  chosen.  The 
mask  was  ideal  and  in  the  four  days'  fighting  the  Russians  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  locating  its  position.  It  was  only  a  chance  shell  or  shrapnel 
that  broke  within  the  danger  zone. 

But  aside  from  watching  the  German  guns  in  action  there  was  noth- 
ing to  see  at  this  point, —  not  even  the  objective  of  the  fire, —  so  with  my 
officer  escort  we  moved  up  to  the  crest  of  the  hill,  following  the  line  of 
the  field  telephone  to  the  point  from  which  half  a  dozen  officers  were 
watching  the  effect  and  directing  the  German  fire. 

Now  both  the  German  and  Russian  shells  were  screeching  and  scream- 
ing overhead  in  a  most  uncomfortable  if  undangerous  fashion.  In  the 
morning  sunlight,  from  the  summit  of  the  hill,  I  got  my  first  view  of 
the  fighting  that  will  go  down  in  history  as  the  battle  of  Wirballen. 

The  line  stretched  off  to  the  left  as  far  as  the  field  glasses  would 
carry,  in  a  great,  irregular  semicircle,  the  irregularity  being  caused  by 
the  efforts  of  both  armies  to  keep  to  high  ground  with  their  main  lines. 

As  we  watched,  the  entire  fire  of  the  Russian  artillery  seemed  to  be 
diverted  on  a  village  situated  on  a  low  plain  about  2000  yards  to  the 
northward  of  our  position.  The  village  —  already  deserted  —  was  being 
literally  flattened  under  a  deluge  of  iron  and  steel. 

The  ruins  were  in  flames.  After  half  an  hour  the  reason  for  shelling 
the  deserted  village  became  evident. 

A  general  advance  against  the  German  center  was  launched  and  the  Rus- 
sians were  making  certain  that  the  village,  directly  in  the  line  of  advance, 
had  not  been  occupied  by  the  German  machine  guns  during  the  night. 

So  far,  though  I  had  been  witnessing  a  battle  of  obviously  tremendous 
magnitude,  I  had  not  seen  the  enemy.  From  our  position  slightly  in  the 
rear  of  the  German  flank,  it  was  comparatively  easy  to  trace  our  own 
line  through  the  glasses,  but  the  general  line  of  the  Russians  was  hard 
to  determine,  being  indicated  only  by  occasional  flashes  of  gunfire. 

With  the  start  of  the  Russian  attempt  on  the  German  center,  however, 
the  entire  scene  changed.  Yesterday,  for  the  first  time  since  the  start 
of  the  batde  on  Sunday,  the  Russians  attempted  to  carry  the  German 
center  position  by  storm. 

All  Sunday  and  Monday  the  opposing  artillery  had  been  hammering 
away  at  the  opposing  trenches.  The  marksmanship  of  the  Russian  artil- 
lery had  been  bad,  but  I  was  told  that  a  Russian  aeroplane  had  made  a 
reconnoissance  of  the  German  position  shortly  after  dawn  yesterday. 


WAR  263 

I  saw  no  machines  in  flight.  Twice  under  cover  of  their  field  artillery 
the  Russian  infantry'  advanced  in  force  yesterday.  Twice  they  were 
forced  back  to  their  defensive  positions.    Now  they  were  to  try  again. 

The  preliminaries  were  well  under  way,  without  my  appreciating  their 
significance  until  one  of  my  officer  escorts  explained. 

At  a  number  of  points  along  their  line,  observable  by  us,  but  screened 
from  the  observation  of  the  German  trenches  in  the  center,  the  Russian 
infantry  came  tumbling  out  and,  rushing  forward,  took  up  advanced 
positions  awaiting  the  formation  of  the  new  and  irregular  battle  line. 

Dozens  of  light  rapid  firers  were  dragged  along  by  hand.  Other  troops 
—  the  reserves  —  took  up  semiadvanced  positions.  All  the  while  the 
Russian  shrapnel  was  raining  over  the  German  trenches. 

Every  move  of  the  enemy  was  obviously  being  communicated  to  the 
German  center.  The  German  reserve  column  moved  in  closer.  The  rifle 
fire  from  the  German  trenches  practically  ceased. 

The  German  officers  moved  along  in  the  open  behind  the  trenches 
encouraging  and  steadying  their  men,  preparing  them  for  the  shock. 
Finally  came  the  Russian  order  to  advance. 

At  the  word  hundreds  of  yards  of  the  Russian  fighting  line  leaped 
forward,  deployed  in  open  order  and  came  on.  One,  two,  three,  and  in 
some  places  four  and  five  successive  skirmish  lines,  separated  by  inter- 
vals of  from  20  to  50  yards,  swept  forward. 

Some  of  them  came  into  range  of  the  German  trench  fire  almost 
at  once.    These  lines  began  to  wilt  and  thin  out. 

Others  were  able  to  make  a  considerable  advance  under  cover.  The 
smoke  of  the  burning  village  gave  a  grateful  protection  to  several  regiments. 

But  on  they  came,  all  along  the  line,  protected  and  unprotected  alike, 
rushing  forward  with  a  yell,  pausing,  firing,  and  advancing  again. 

From  the  outset  of  the  advance,  the  German  artillery,  ignoring  for  the 
moment  the  Russian  artillery  action,  began  shelling  the  onrushing  mass 
with  wonderfully  timed  shrapnel,  which  burst  low  above  the  advancing 
lines  and  tore  sickening  gaps. 

But  the  Russian  line  never  stopped.  For  the  third  time  in  two  days 
they  came  tearing  on,  with  no  indication  of  having  been  affected  by  the 
terrible  consequences  of  the  two  previous  charges. 

As  a  spectacle  the  whole  thing  was  maddening.  I  found  my  heart 
thumping  like  a  hammer,  and  with  no  weapon  more  formidable  than  a  pair 
of  binoculars,  I  was  mentally  fighting  as  hard  as  the  men  with  the  guns. 


264  TvricAL  m:\vspapp:r  stories 

For  the  first  time  I  sensed  the  intoxication  of  battle  and  learned  the 
secret  of  the  smiles  on  the  faces  of  the  battlcfield's  dead. 

On  came  the  Slav  swarm  —  into  the  range  of  the  German  trenches, 
with  wild  yells  and  never  a  waver.  Russian  battle  flags  —  the  first  I 
had  seen  —  appeared  in  the  front  of  the  charging  ranks. 

The  advance  line  thinned  and  the  second  line  moved  up.  Nearer  and 
nearer  they  swept  toward  the  German  positions. 

And  then  came  a  new  sight  1  A  few  seconds  later  came  a  new  sound. 
First  I  saw  a  sudden,  almost  grotesque,  melting  of  the  advancing  lines. 
It  was  different  from  anything  that  had  taken  place  before. 

The  men  literally  went  down  like  dominoes  in  a  row.  Those  who 
kept  their  feet  were  hurled  back  as  though  by  a  terrible  gust  of  wind. 
Almost  in  the  second  that  I  pondered,  puzzled,  the  staccato  rattle  of 
machine  guns  reached  us.    My  ear  answered  the  query  of  my  eye. 

For  the  first  time  the  advancing  lines  hesitated,  apparently  bewildered. 
Mounted  officers  dashed  along  the  line  urging  the  men  forward. 

Horses  fell  with  the  men.  I  saw  a  dozen  riderless  horses  dashing 
madly  through  the  lines,  adding  a  new  terror.  Another  horse  was  obvi- 
ously running  away  with  his  officer  rider. 

The  crucial  period  for  the  section  of  the  charge  on  which  I  had  riveted 
my  attention  probably  lasted  less  than  a  minute.  To  my  throbbing  brain 
it  seemed  an  hour. 

Then,  with  the  withering  fire  raking  them,  even  as  they  faltered,  the 
lines  broke.  Panic  ensued.  It  was  every  man  for  himself.  The  entire 
Russian  charge  turned  and  went  tearing  back  to  cover  and  the  shelter 
of  the  Russian  trenches. 

I  swept  the  entire  line  of  the  Russian  advance  with  my  glasses  —  as 
far  as  it  was  visible  from  our  position.  The  whole  advance  of  the  enemy 
was  in  retreat,  making  for  its  intrenched  position. 

After  the  assault  had  failed  and  the  battle  had  resumed  its  normal 
trend,  I  swept  the  field  with  my  glasses.  The  dead  were  everywhere. 
They  were  not  piled  up,  but  were  strewn  over  acres. 

More  horrible  than  the  sight  of  the  dead,  though,  were  the  other 
pictures  brought  up  by  the  glasses.  Squirming,  tossing,  writhing  figures 
everywhere  !    The  wounded  ! 

•     All  who  could  stumble  or  crawl  were  working  their  way  back  toward 
their  own  lines  or  back  to  the  friendly  cover  of  hills  or  wooded  spots. 

But  there  appeared  to  be  hundreds  to  whom  was  denied  even  this  hope, 
hundreds  doomed  to  lie  there  in  the  open,  with  wounds  unwashed  and 


WAR  265 

undressed,  suffering  from  thirst  and  hunger  until  the  merciful  shadows 
of  darkness  made  possible  their  rescue  —  by  the  Good  Samaritans  of 
the  hospital  corps,  who  are  tonight  gleaning  that  field  of  death  for  the 
third  time  since  Sunday. 

After  the  charge  we  moved  along  back  of  the  German  lines  at  a  safe 
distance  and  found  the  hospital  corps  bringing  back  the  German  wounded. 
The  number  of  these  was  comparatively  slight,  due  to  the  strongly 
intrenched  positions  they  had  occupied.  Nearly  all  the  wounded  were 
hit  by  shrapnel  as  they  lay  in  the  trenches. 

After  a  tour  along  the  rear  of  the  German  position,  where  we  saw  the 
reserves,  ammunition  and  supply  wagons  all  drawn  up  in  close  formation, 
with  the  hospital  corps  in  the  extreme  rear,  we  moved  up  until  directly 
behind  the  German  trenches. 

The  artillerymen  had  resumed  their  duel,  and  as  we  came  up  in 
the  lee  of  the  outbuildings  of  a  deserted  farmhouse  a  shell  struck  and 
fired  the  farmhouse  immediately  in  front  of  us. 

As  we  paused  to  see  if  the  shot  was  a  chance  one,  or  if  the  Russian 
gunners  had  actually  gotten  the  range,  a  regiment  of  fresh  reserves, 
young  men  who  had  just  come  up  from  the  west,  passed  us  on  their 
way  to  get  their  baptism  of  fire. 

Their  demeanor  was  more  suggestive  of  a  group  of  college  students 
going  to  a  football  game  than  the  serious  business  on  which  they  were 
bent.  They  were  singing  and  laughing,  and  as  they  went  by  a  non- 
commissioned officer  inquired  rather  ruefully  whether  there  were  any 
Russians  left  for  them. 

As  we  stood  on  a  slight  rise  overlooking  about  three  miles  of  the  battle 
front,  a  staff  officer  came  dashing  toward  us,  yelling  and  pointing  to 
something  behind  us.  We  turned  in  time  to  see  a  shell  burst  800 
yards  away. 

A  few  seconds  later  another  dropped  about  500  yards;  then  one 
about  300.  When  one  broke  200  yards  away,  we  understood  the 
officer's  frantic  gesticulation. 

We  took  it  down  the  hill  on  the  dead  run  to  cover  and  a  moment 
later  a  shell  burst  with  terrific  force  on  the  very  spot  on  which  we  had 
stood,  furnishing  a  splendid  target  in  the  open  field. 

As  we  worked  our  way  slowly  through  a  dense  wood  in  the  direction 
of  the  German  trenches,  we  were  almost  deafened  by  the  shriek  and 
crash  of  burst  shells  sweeping  overhead  as  the  Russian  gunners  felt 
out  the  German  position  in  an  effort  to  locate  a  German  ammunition 


266  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

train  300  yards  to  our  right,  where  it  had  probably  been  sighted 
by  a  Russian  aeroplane. 

Tliroughout  the  day  we  watched  the  fight  waged  from  the  opposing 
trenches  and  by  the  artillery.  The  German  forces  seemed  content  to 
hold  their  present  position  for  the  time  being  and,  barring  a  few 
outpost  skirmishes,  made  no  serious  offensive  moves. 

Suddenly  at  sundown  the  fighting  cleared  as  if  by  mutual  agreement. 
An  outpost,  really  only  a  reenforced  picket  line,  was  thrown  out  ahead 
of  the  German  line,  and  the  work  of  removing  the  dead  and  wounded 
who  could  not  be  moved  under  fire  was  rushed  along. 

Within  an  hour  after  the  day's  firing  had  ceased,  the  German  trenches 
were  cleaned  up  and  the  work  of  bringing  up  the  supplies  for  tomorrow's 
conflict  was  under  way. 

As  I  write  this  I  can  see  occasional  flashes  of  light,  like  the  flare  of 
giant  fireflies,  out  over  the  scene  of  the  Russian  charge  —  the  flashes  of 
small  electrical  lamps  in  the  hands  of  the  Russian  hospital  corps.  I'm 
glad  I  don't  have  to  look  at  what  the  flashes  reveal  out  there  in  the 
night.  —  Karl  H.  von  Wiegand,  United  Press  Correspondent 

Editor's  Note.  The  foregoing  description  of  a  modern  battlefield  in 
Russian  Poland  forbids  analysis.  It  is  a  tremendous  piece  of  writing,  crowded 
with  ghastly  details  and  haunting  pictures.  The  roar  of  machine  guns,  the 
shrieking  of  death-dealing  shrapnel,  and  the  mowing  down  of  gallant  troops 
advancing  to  the  charge  are  set  down  with  a  cruel  fidelity  of  realism.  Atten-B 
tion  is  called  to  the  opening  sentence  of  the  narrative,  which  bears  the  unmis-I 
takable  mark  of  trained  newspaper  instinct  which  captures  the  gist  of  a  long' 
succession  of  events.  The  reader  is  told  that  "At  sundown  tonight,  after  four 
days  of  constant  fighting,  the  German  army  holds  its  strategic  and  strongly 
intrenched  posidon  east  of  Wirballen,"  a  "  lead "  which  accentuates  news 
rather  than  descripdon. 

The  description  reveals  a  prodigality  of  vivid  figures  and  forceful  epithets 
Witness :  "  weird,  tooth-edging,  spine-chilling,  whistling  screech  overhead  " 
"  the  men  literally  went  down  like  dominoes  in  a  row  "  ;  "  squirming,  tossing 
writhing  figures  everywhere  !  The  wounded  !  " 
.  The  correspondent  shows  his  own  revulsion  against  war  when  he  incidentalh 
remarks  on  why  correspondents  are  not  wanted  on  the  modern  battlefield.  Th( 
introduction  of  the  aeroplane  and  the  telephone  into  the  business  of  warfare  It 
touched  upon  in  the  course  of  the  narrative.  " 

The  writer  of  this  story,  Karl  H.  von  Wiegand,  United  Press  correspondent 
was  the  first  newspaper  correspondent  to  reach  the  battle  front  in  the  easteri 
theater  of  war.  When  war  was  declared  he  was  the  Berlin  corresponden 
of  the  United  Press.     Following  the  opening  of  hostilides  he  was  arrcstei 


WAR  267 

as  a  spy.  His  credentials  and  the  fact  that  he  is  of  German  birth  speedily 
brought  him  release.  His  experiences  at  the  battle  of  Wirballen  are  typical 
of  his  courage,  news  enterprise,  and  gift  of  graphic  expression,  displayed 
in  reporting  other  events  of  the  Great  War. 

THE  FALL  OF  ANTWERP 

The  storm  which  was  to  burst  over  Antwerp  the  following  night  was 
gathering  fast  when  we  arrived  on  Tuesday  morning.  Army  motor  trucks 
loaded  with  dismantled  aeroplanes  and  the  less  essential  impedimenta 
screamed  through  the  streets  bound  away  from,  not  toward,  the  front. 
The  Queen,  that  afternoon,  was  seen  in  the  Hotel  St.  Antoine  receiving 
the  good-bys  of  various  friends.  Consuls  suddenly  locked  their  doors 
and  fled.  And  the  cannon,  rumbling  along  the  eastern  horizon  as  they 
had  rumbled,  nearer  and  nearer,  for  a  fortnight,  were  now  beyond  the 
outer  line  of  forts  and  within  striking  distance  of  the  town. 

That  night,  an  hour  or  two  after  midnight,  in  my  hotel  by  the  water 
front,  I  awoke  to  the  steady  clatter  of  hoofs  on  cobblestones  and  the 
rumble  of  wheels.  I  went  to  the  window,  on  the  narrow  side  street,  black 
as  all  streets  had  been  in  Antwerp  since  the  night  that  the  Zeppelin  threw 
its  first  bombs,  and  looked  out.  It  was  a  moonlight  night,  clear  and  cold, 
and  there  along  the  Quai  St.  Michael,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  was  an 
army  in  retreat.  They  were  Belgians,  battered  and  worn  out  with  their 
unbroken  weeks  of  hopeless  fighting ;  cavalrymen  on  their  tired  horses, 
artillerymen,  heads  sunk  on  their  chests,  drowsing  on  their  lurching  cais- 
sons ;  the  patient  little  foot  soldiers,  rifles  slung  across  their  shoulders, 
scuffling  along  in  their  heavy  overcoats. 

In  the  dark  shadow  of  the  tall  old  houses  a  few  people  came  out  and 
stood  there  watching  silently  and,  as  one  felt,  in  a  sort  of  despair.  All 
night  long  men  were  marching  by  —  and  in  London  they  were  still  read- 
ing that  it  was  but  a  "  demonstration  "  the  Germans  were  engaged  in  — 
down  the  quay  and  across  the  pontoon  bridge  —  the  only  way  over  the 
Scheldt  —  over  to  the  Tete  de  Flandre  and  the  road  to  Ghent.  They  were 
strung  along  the  street  next  morning,  boots  mud-covered,  mud-stained, 
intrenching  shovels  hanging  to  their  belts,  faces  unshaven  for  weeks,  just 
as  they  had  come  from  the  trenches ;  yet  still  patient  and  cheerful,  with 
that  unshakable  Flemish  good  cheer.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  not  a 
retreat ;  they  might  be  swinging  round  to  the  south  and  St.  Nicholas 
to  attack  the  German  flank.  .  .  . 


268  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

But  before  they  had  crossed,  another  army,  a  civilian  army,  flowed 
down  on  and  over  the  quay.  For  a  week  people  had  been  leaving  Ant- 
werp ;  now  the  general  flight  began.  From  villages  to  the  east  and  south- 
east, from  the  city  itself,  people  came  pouring  down.  In  wagons  drawn 
by  huge  Belgian  draft  horses,  in  carts  pulled  by  the  captivating  Belgian 
work  dogs,  panting  mightily  and  digging  their  paws  into  the  slippery 
cobbles  ;  on  foot,  leading  little  children  and  carrying  babies  and  dolls  and 
canaries  and  great  bundles  of  clothes  and  household  things  wrapped  in 
sheets,  they  surged  toward  that  one  narrow  bridge  and  the  crowded 
ferryboats.  I  saw  one  old  woman,  gray-haired  and  tanned  like  an  Indian 
squaw  with  work  in  the  fields,  yet  with  a  fine,  well-made  face,  pushing  a 
groaning  wheelbarrow.  A  strap  went  from  the  handles  over  her  shoulders, 
and,  stopping  now  and  then  to  ask  the  news,  she  would  slip  off  this  har- 
ness, gossip  for  a  time,  then  push  on  again.  That  afternoon  under  my 
window  there  was  a  tall  wagon,  a  sort  of  hay  wagon,  in  which  there  were 
twenty-two  little  tow-headed  children,  none  more  than  eight  or  ten,  and 
several  almost  babies  in  arms.  By  the  side  of  the  wagon  a  man,  evidently 
father  of  some  of  them,  stood  buttering  the  end  of  a  huge  round  loaf  of 
bread  and  cutting  off  slice  after  slice,  which  the  older  children  broke  and  dis- 
tributed to  the  little  ones.  Two  cows  were  tied  to  the  back  of  the  wagon 
and  the  man's  wife  squatted  there  milking  them.  All  along  the  quay  and 
in  the  streets  leading  into  it  were  people  like  this — harmless,  helpless,  hard- 
working people,  going  they  knew  not  where.  The  entrance  to  the  bridge 
was  soon  choked.  One  went  away  and  returned  an  hour  later  and  found 
the  same  people  waiting  almost  in  the  same  spot,  and,  with  that  wonderful 
calm  and  patience  of  theirs,  feeding  their  children  or  giving  a  little  of  their 
precious  hay  to  the  horses,  quietly  waiting  their  turn  while  the  cannon 
which  had  driven  them  from  their  homes  kept  on  thundering  behind  them. 

That  afternoon  I  walked  uptown  through  the  shuttered,  silent  streets 
—  silent  but  for  that  incessant  rumbling  in  the  southeast  and  the  occa- 
sional honking  flight  of  some  military  automobile — to  two  of  the  hospitals. 
In  one,  a  British  hospital  on  the  Boulevard  Leopold,  the  doctor  in  charge 
was  absent  for  the  moment,  and  there  was  no  one  to  answer  my  offer  of 
occasional  help  if  an  outsider  could  be  of  use.  As  I  sat  waiting  a  tall, 
brisk  Englishwoman,  in  nurse's  uniform,  came  up  and  asked  what  I 
wanted.     I  told  her. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  and  in  her  crisp  English  voice,  without  further  ado, 
"  will  you  help  me  with  a  leg  ?  " 


WAR  269 

She  led  the  way  into  her  ward,  and  there  we  contrived  between  us 
to  bandage  and  slip  a  board  and  pillow  under  a  fractured  thigh.  Between 
whispers  of  "  Courage!  Courage  f"  to  the  Belgian  soldier,  she  said  that 
she  was  the  wife  of  a  British  general  and  had  two  sons  in  the  army  and 
a  third  —  "Poor  boy!"  she  murmured,  more  to  him  than  to  me  —  on 
one  of  the  ships  in  the  North  Sea.  I  arranged  to  come  back  next  morn- 
ing to  help  with  the  lifting,  and  went  on  to  another  hospital  in  the  Rue 
Nerviens,  to  find  that  little  English  lady  who  crossed  with  us  in  the 
Ostend  boat  in  August  on  the  way  to  her  sister's  hospital  in  Antwerp. 

Here  in  the  quiet  wards  she  had  been  working  while  the  Germans 
swept  down  on  Paris  and  were  rolled  back  again,  and  while  the  little 
nation  which  she  and  her  sister  loved  so  well  was  being  clubbed  to  its 
knees.  Louvain,  Liege,  Malines,  Namur  —  chapters  in  all  the  long,  piti- 
less story  were  lying  there  in  the  narrow  iron  beds.  There  were  men 
with  faces  chewed  by  shrapnel,  men  burned  in  the  explosion  of  the  pow- 
der magazine  at  Fort  Waelhem,  when  the  attack  on  Antwerp  began  — 
dragged  out  from  the  underground  passage  in  which  the  garrison  had 
sought  momentary  refuge  and  where  most  of  them  were  killed,  burned, 
and  blackened.  One  strong,  good-looking  young  fellow,  able  to  eat  and  live 
apparently,  was  shot  through  the  temples  and  blind  in  both  eyes.  It  was 
the  hour  for  carrying  those  well  enough  to  stand  it  out  into  the  court  and 
giving  them  their  afternoon's  airing  and  smoke.  One  had  lost  an  arm, 
another,  a  whimsical  young  Belgian,  had  only  the  stump  of  a  left  leg. 
When  we  started  to  lift  him  back  into  his  bed,  he  said  he  had  a  better 
way  than  that.  So  he  put  his  arms  round  my  neck  and  showed  me  how 
to  take  him  by  the  back  and  the  well  leg. 

"  Bofif"  he  said,  and  again  "  Bon!"  when  I  let  him  down,  and  then 
reaching  out  and  patting  me  on  the  back,  '■'■  Bo7i!"  he  smiled  again. 

That  night,  behind  drawn  curtains  which  admitted  no  light  to  the  street, 
we  dined  peacefully  and  well,  and,  except  for  this  unwonted  seclusion, 
just  outside  which  were  the  black  streets  and  still  the  endless  procession 
of  carts  and  wagons  and  shivering  people,  one  might  have  forgotten,  in 
that  cheerfully  lighted  room,  that  we  were  not  in  times  of  peace.  We 
even  loitered  over  a  grate  fire  before  going  to  bed  and  talked  in  drowsy 
and  almost  indifferent  fashion  of  whether  it  was  absolutely  sure  that  the 
Germans  were  trying  to  take  the  town. 

It  was  almost  exactly  midnight  that  I  found  myself  listening,  half 
awake,  to  the  familiar  sound  of  distant  cannon.    One  had  come  to  think 


270  rvriCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

of  it,  almost,  as  nothing  but  a  sound ;  and  to  listen  with  a  detached  and 
not  unpleasant  interest  as  a  man  tucked  comfortably  in  bed  follows  a 
roll  of  thunder  to  its  end  or  listens  to  the  fall  of  rain. 

It  struck  me  suddenly  that  there  was  something  new  about  this  sound; 
I  sat  up  in  bed  to  listen,  and  at  that  instant  a  far-off,  sullen  "  Boom !  " 
was  followed  by  a  crash  as  if  lightning  had  struck  a  house  a  little  way 
down  the  street.  As  I  hurried  to  the  window  there  came  another  far- 
off  detonation,  a  curious  wailing  whistle  swept  across  the  sky,  and  over 
behind  the  roofs  to  the  left  there  was  another  crash. 

One  after  another  they  came,  at  intervals  of  half  a  minute,  or  screaming 
on  each  other's  heels  as  if  racing  to  their  goal.  And  then  the  crash  or, 
if  farther  away,  muflfled  explosion  as  another  roof  toppled  in,  or  cornice 
dropped  off,  as  a  house  made  of  canvas  drops  to  pieces  in  a  play. 

The  effect  of  those  unearthly  wails,  suddenly  singing  in  across  country 
in  the  dead  of  night  from  six  —  eight  —  ten  miles  away  —  Heaven  knows 
where  —  was,  as  the  Germans  intended  it  to  be,  tremendous.  It  is  not 
easy  to  describe  nor  to  be  imagined  by  those  who  had  not  lived  in  that 
threatened  city  —  the  last  Belgian  stronghold — and  felt  that  vast,  unseen 
power  rolling  nearer  and  nearer.  And  now,  all  at  once,  it  was  here, 
materialized,  demoniacal,  a  flying  death,  swooping  across  the  dark  into 
your  very  room. 

It  was  like  one  of  those  dreams  in  which  you  cannot  stir  from  your 
tracks,  and  meanwhile  "  Boom!  .  .  .  Tzee-ee-ee-ee ! ''''  —  is  this  one  meant 
for  you  ? 

Already  there  was  a  patter  of  feet  in  the  dark,  and  people  with  white 
bundles  on  their  backs  went  stumbling  by  toward  the  river  and  the  bridge. 
Motors  came  honking  down  from  the  inner  streets,  and  the  quay,  which 
had  begun  to  clear  by  this  time,  was  again  jammed.  I  threw  on  some 
clothes,  hurried  to  the  street.  A  rank  smell  of  kerosene  hung  in  the  air ; 
presently  a  petrol  shell  burst  to  the  southward,  lighting  up  the  sky  for 
an  instant  like  the  flare  from  a  blast  furnace,  and  a  few  moments  later 
there  showed  over  the  roofs  the  flames  of  the  first  fire. 

Although  w-e  could  hear  the  wail  of  shells  flying  across  their  wide 
parabola  both  into  the  town  and  out  from  the  first  ring  of  forts,  few 
burst  in  our  part  of  the  city  that  night,  and  we  walked  up  as  far  as  the 
cathedral  without  seeing  anything  but  black  and  silent  streets.  Everyone 
in  the  hotel  was  up  and  dressed  by  this  time.  Some  were  for  leaving 
at  once ;  one  family,  piloted  by  the  comfortable  Belgian  servants  —  far 


WAR  271 

cooler  than  anyone  else  — ■  went  to  the  cellar,  some  gathered  about  the 
grate  in  the  writing  room  to  watch  the  night  out ;  the  rest  of  us  went 
back  to  bed. 

There  was  n't  much  sleep  for  anyone  that  night.  The  bombardment 
kept  on  until  morning,  lulled  slightly  as  if  the  enemy  might  be  taking 
breakfast,  then  it  continued  into  the  next  day.  And  now  the  city  —  a 
busy  city  of  near  four  hundred  thousand  people  —  emptied  itself  in 
earnest.  Citizens  and  soldiers,  field  guns,  motor  trucks,  wheelbarrows, 
dogcarts,  hayricks,  baby  carriages,  droves  of  people  on  foot,  all  flowed 
down  to  the  Scheldt,  the  ferries,  and  the  bridge.  They  poured  into  coal 
barges,  filling  the  yawning  black  holes  as  Africans  used  to  fill  slave  ships, 
into  launches  and  tugs,  and  along  the  roads  leading  down  the  river  and 
southwestward  toward  Ostend. 

One  thought  with  a  shudder  of  what  would  happen  if  the  Germans 
dropped  a  few  of  their  high-explosive  shells  into  that  helpless  mob,  and 
it  is  only  fair  to  remember  that  they  did  not,  although  retreating  Belgian 
soldiers  were  a  part  of  it,  and  one  of  the  German  aeroplanes,  a  mere 
speck  against  the  blue,  was  looking  calmly  down  overhead.  Nor  did  they 
touch  the  cathedral,  and  their  agreement  not  to  shell  any  of  the  buildings 
previously  pointed  out  on  a  map  delivered  to  them  through  the  American 
Legation  seemed  to  be  observed. 

Down  through  that  mass  of  fugitives  pushed  a  London  motor-bus  am- 
bulance with  several  wounded  British  soldiers,  one  of  them  sitting  upright, 
supporting  with  his  right  hand  a  left  arm,  the  biceps,  bound  in  a  blood- 
soaked  tourniquet,  half  torn  away.  They  had  come  in  from  the  trenches, 
where  their  comrades  were  now  waiting,  with  their  helpless  little  rifles, 
for  an  enemy  miles  away,  who  lay  back  at  his  ease  and  swept  them  with 
shrapnel.  I  asked  them  how  things  were  going,  and  they  said  not  very 
well.  They  could  only  wait  until  the  German  aeroplanes  had  given  the 
range  and  the  trenches  became  too  hot,  then  fall  back,  dig  themselves 
in,  and  play  the  same  game  over  again. 

Following  them  was  a  hospital-service  motor  car,  driven  by  a  Belgian 
soldier,  and  in  charge  of  a  clean-cut,  soldierlike-appearing  young  British 
officer.  It  was  his  present  duty  to  motor  from  trench  to  trench  across 
the  zone  of  fire,  with  the  London  bus  trailing  behind,  and  pick  up 
wounded.  It  wasn't  a  particularly  pleasant  job,  he  said,  jerking  his 
head  toward  the  distant  firing,  and  frankly  he  was  n't  keen  about  it. 
We  talked  for  some  time,  everyone  talked  to  ever\'one  else  in  Antwerp 


272  IVPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

that  morning,  and  when  he  started  out  again  I  asked  him  to  give  me 
a  lift  to  the  edge  of  town. 

Quickly  we  raced  through  the  Place  de  Mcir  and  the  deserted  streets 
of  the  politer  part  of  Antwerp,  where,  the  night  before,  most  of  the  shells 
had  fallen.  W'c  went  crackling  over  broken  glass,  past  gaping  cornices 
and  holes  in  the  pavement,  five  feet  across  and  three  feet  deep,  and  once 
passed  a  house  quietly  burning  away  with  none  to  so  much  as  watch  the 
fire.  The  city  wall,  along  which  are  the  first  line  of  forts,  drew  near,  then 
the  tunnel  passing  under  it,  and  we  went  through  without  pausing  and 
on  down  the  road  to  M alines.  We  were  beyond  the  town  now,  bowling 
rapidly  out  into  the  flat  Belgian  countr)^,  and  clinging  there  to  the  running 
board,  with  the  October  wind  blowing  quite  through  a  thin  flannel  suit, 
it  suddenly  came  over  me  that  things  had  moved  ver)^  fast  in  the  last  five 
minutes,  and  then  all  at  once,  in  some  unexpected  fashion,  all  that  elabo- 
rate barrier  of  laissez-passers,  sauf-coiidiiifs,  and  so  on,  had  been  swept 
aside,  and,  quite  as  if  it  were  the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world, 
I  was  spinning  out  to  that  almost  mythical  "  front." 

Front,  indeed  !  It  was  two  fronts.  There  w^as  an  explosion  just  be- 
hind us,  a  hideous  noise  overhead,  as  if  the  whole  zenith  had  somehow 
been  ripped  across  like  a  tightly  stretched  piece  of  silk,  and  a  shell  from 
the  Belgian  fort  under  which  we  had  just  passed  went  hurtling  down 
long  aisles  of  air  —  further  —  further  —  to  end  in  a  faint  detonation 
miles  away. 

Out  of  sight  in  front  of  us,  there  was  an  answering  thud,  and  — 
*^  Tzee-ee-ee-er-r-r-BONG /"  —  a  German  shell  had  gone  over  us  and 
burst  behind  the  Belgian  fort.  Under  this  gigantic  antiphony  the  motor 
car  raced  along,  curiously  small  and  irrelevant  on  that  empty  country  road. 

We  passed  great  holes  freshly  made — craters  five  or  six  feet  across  and 
three  feet  deep,  neatly  blown  out  of  the  macadam  —  then  a  dead  horse. 
There  were  plenty  of  dead  horses  along  the  roads  in  France,  but  they 
had  been  so  for  days.  This  one's  blood  was  not  yet  dry,  and  the  shell 
that  had  torn  the  great  rip  in  its  chest  must  have  struck  here  this  morning. 

We  turned  into  the  avenue  of  trees  leading  up  to  an  empty  chateau, 
a  field  hospital  until  a  few  hours  before.  Mattresses  and  bandages  lit- 
tered the  deserted  room,  and  an  electric  chandelier  was  still  burning. 
The  young  officer  pointed  to  some  trenches  in  the  garden.  "  I  had 
those  dug  to  put  the  wounded  in  in  case  we  had  to  hold  the  place," 
he  said.    "  It  was  getting  pretty  hot." 


WAR  273 

There  was  nothing  here  now,  however,  and,  followed  by  the  London 
bus  with  its  obedient  enlisted  men  doing  duty  as  ambulance  orderlies,  we 
motored  a  mile  or  so  further  on  to  the  nearest  trench.  It  was  in  an  orchard 
beside  a  brick  farmhouse,  with  a  vista  in  front  of  barbed-wire  entangle- 
ment and  a  carefully  cleaned  firing  field  stretching  out  to  a  village  and 
trees  about  half  a  mile  away.  They  had  looked  very  interesting  and 
difficult,  those  barbed-wire  mazes  and  suburbs  ruthlessly  swept  of  trees 
and  houses,  when  I  had  seen  the  Belgians  preparing  for  the  siege  six 
weeks  before,  and  they  were  to  be  of  about  as  much  practical  use  now 
as  pictures  on  a  wall. 

There  are,  it  will  be  recalled,  three  lines  of  forts  about  Antwerp  — 
the  inner  one,  corresponding  to  the  city's  wall ;  a  middle  one  a  few  miles 
further  out,  where  the  British  now  were,  and  the  outer  line,  which  the 
enemy  had  already  passed.  Their  artillery  was  hidden  far  over  behind 
the  horizon  trees,  and  the  British  marines  and  naval  reserve  men  who 
manned  these  trenches  could  only  wait  there,  rifle  in  hand,  for  an  enemy 
that  would  not  come,  while  a  captive  balloon  a  mile  or  two  away  to  the 
eastward  and  an  aeroplane  sailing  far  overhead  gave  the  ranges,  and 
they  waited  for  the  shrapnel  to  burst.  The  trenches  were  narrow  and 
shoulder  deep,  very  like  trenches  for  gas  or  water  pipes,  and  reasonably 
safe  except  when  a  shell  burst  directly  overhead.  One  had  struck  that 
morning  just  on  the  inner  rim  of  the  trench,  blown  out  one  of  those 
craterlike  holes,  and  discharged  all  its  shrapnel  backward  across  the 
trench  and  into  one  of  the  heavy  timbers  supporting  a  bombproof  roof. 
A  raincoat  hanging  to  a  nail  in  this  timber  was  literally  shot  to  shreds. 
"  That 's  where  I  was  standing,"  said  the  young  lieutenant  in  command, 
pointing  with  a  dr}'  smile  to  a  spot  not  more  than  a  yard  away  from 
where  the  shell  had  burst. 

Half  a  dozen  young  fellows,  crouched  there  in  the  bombproof,  looked 
out  at  us  and  grinned.  They  were  brand-new  soldiers,  some  of  them, 
boys  from  the  London  streets  who  had  answered  the  thrilling  posters 
and  signs,  "  Your  King  and  Country  Need  You,"  and  been  sent  on  this 
ill-fated  expedition  for  their  first  sight  of  war.  The  London  papers  are 
talking  about  it  as  I  am  writing  this  —  how  this  handful  of  nine  thou- 
sand men,  part  of  them  recruits  who  scarcely  knew  one  end  of  a  rifle 
from  another,  were  flung  across  the  Channel  on  Sunday  night  and  rushed 
up  to  the  front  to  be  shot  at  and  rushed  back  again.  I  did  not  know 
this  then,  but  wondered  if  this  was  what  they  had  dreamed  of  —  squatting 


274  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

helplessly  in  a  ditch  until  another  order  came  to  retire  —  when  they 
swung  through  the  London  streets  singing  "  It 's  a  long,  long  way  to 
Tipperary  "  two  months  ago. 

Vet  not  one  of  the  youngest  and  the  greenest  showed  the  least 
nervousness  as  they  waited  there  in  that  melancholy  little  orchard  under 
the  incessant  scream  of  shells.  That  unshakable  British  coolness,  part 
sheer  pluck,  part  a  sort  of  lack  of  imagination,  perhaps,  or  at  least  of 
"  nerves,"  left  them  as  calm  and  casual  as  if  they  were  but  drilling  on 
the  turf  of  Hyde  Park.  And  with  it  persisted  that  almost  equally  un- 
shakable sense  of  class,  that  touching  confidence  in  one's  superiors  — 
the  young  clerk's  or  mechanic's  inborn  conviction  that  whatever  that 
smart,  clean-cut,  imperturbable  young  officer  does  and  says  must  inevi- 
tably be  right  —  at  least  that  if  he  is  cool  and  serene  you  must,  if  the 
skies  fall,  be  cool  and  serene  too. 

We  met  one  young  fellow  as  we  walked  through  an  empty  lateral 
leading  to  a  bombproof  prepared  for  wounded,  and  the  ambulance  officer 
asked  him  sharply  how  things  had  been  going  that  morning. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  sir,"  he  said  with  the  most  respectful  good  humor, 
though  a  shell  bursting  just  then  a  stone's  throw  beyond  the  orchard 
made  both  of  us  duck  our  heads.  "A  bit  hot,  sir,  about  nine  o'clock, 
but  only  one  man  hurt.  They  do  seem  to  know  just  where  we  are, 
sir ;  but  wait  till  their  infantry  comes  up  —  we  '11  clean  them  out  right 
enough,  sir." 

And  if  he  had  been  ordered  to  stay  there  and  hold  the  trench 
alone,  one  could  imagine  him  saying  in  that  same  tone  of  deference  and 
chipper  good  humor :  "  Yes,  sir ;  thank  you,  sir,"  and  staying,  too,  till 
the  cows  came  home. 

We  motored  down  the  line  to  another  trench  —  this  one  along  a  road 
with  fields  in  front  and  about  a  couple  of  hundred  yards  behind  a  clump 
of  trees  which  masked  a  Belgian  battery.  The  officer  here,  a  tall,  up- 
standing, gravely  handsome  young  man,  with  a  deep,  strong,  slightly 
humorous  voice,  and  the  air  of  one  both  born  to  and  used  to  command 
—  the  best  type  of  navy  man  —  came  over  to  meet  us,  rather  glad,  it 
seemed,  to  see  someone.  The  ambulance  officer  had  just  started  to 
speak  when  there  was  a  roar  from  the  clump  of  trees,  at  the  same 
instant  an  explosion  directly  overhead,  and  an  ugly  chunk  of  iron  — 
a  bit  of  broken  casing  from  a  shrapnel  shell  —  plunged  at  our  very  feet. 
The  shell  had  been  wrongly  timed  and  exploded  prematurely. 


WAR  275 

"  I  say  I  "  the  lieutenant  called  out  to  a  Belgian  oflficer  standing  not 
far  away,  "  can't  you  telephone  over  to  your  people  to  stop  that.  That 's 
the  third  time  we  've  been  nearly  hit  by  their  shrapnel  this  morning. 
After  all"  —  he  turned  to  us  with  the  air  of  apologizing  somewhat  for 
his  display  of  irritation  — "  it 's  quite  annoying  enough  here  without 
that,  you  know." 

It  was,  indeed,  annoying  —  very.  The  trenches  were  not  under  fire 
in  the  sense  that  the  enemy  were  making  a  persistent  effort  to  clear  them 
out,  but  they  were  in  the  zone  of  fire,  their  range  was  known,  and  there 
was  no  telling  when  that  distant  boom  thudded  across  the  fields  whether 
that  particular  shell  might  be  intended  for  them  or  for  somebody's  house 
in  town.  We  could  see  in  the  distance  their  captive  balloon,  and  there 
were  a  couple  of  scouts,  the  officer  said,  in  a  tower  in  the  village,  not 
much  more  than  half  a  mile  away.  He  pointed  to  the  spot  across  the 
barbed  wire.  "  We  've  been  trying  to  pick  them  off  with  our  rifles  for 
the  last  half  hour." 

We  left  them  engaged  in  this  interesting  distraction,  the  little  rifle 
snaps  in  all  that  mighty  thundering  seeming  only  to  accept  the  loneliness 
and  helplessness  of  their  position,  and  spun  on  down  the  transverse  road, 
toward  another  trench  on  the  left.  The  progress  of  the  motor  seemed 
slow  and  disappointing.  Not  that  the  spot  a  quarter  of  a  mile  off  was  at 
all  less  likely  to  be  hit,  yet  one  felt  conscious  of  a  growing  desire  to  be 
somewhere  else.  And  though  I  took  off  my  hat  to  keep  it  from  blow- 
ing off,  I  found  that  every  time  a  shell  went  over  I  promptly  put  it 
on  again,  indicating,  one  suspected,  a  decline  in  what  the  military  experts 
call  morale. 

As  we  bowled  down  the  road  toward  a  group  of  brick  houses  on  the 
left,  a  shell  passed  not  more  than  fifty  yards  in  front  of  us  and  through 
the  side  of  one  of  these  houses  as  easily  as  a  circus  rider  pops  through 
a  tissue-paper  hoop.  Almost  at  the  same  instant  another  exploded  — 
where  I  have  n't  the  least  idea,  except  that  the  dust  from  it  hit  us  in  the 
face.  The  motor  rolled  smoothly  along  meanwhile,  and  the  Belgian 
soldier  driving  it  stared  as  imperturbably  ahead  of  him  as  if  he  were 
back  at  Antwerp  on  the  seat  of  his  taxicab. 

You  get  used  to  shells  in  time,  it  seems,  and,  deciding  that  you  either 
are  or  are  not  going  to  be  hit,  dismiss  responsibility  and  leave  it  all  to 
fate.  I  must  admit  that  in  my  brief  experience  I  was  not  able  to  arrive 
at  this  restful  state.    We  reached  at  last  the  city  gate  through  which  we 


276  TVriCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

had  left  Antwerp,  and  the  motor  came  to  a  stop  just  at  the  inner  edge 
of  the  passage  under  the  fort,  and  I  said  good-by  to  the  young  English- 
man ere  he  started  back  for  the  trenches  again. 

"  Well,"  he  called  after  me  as  I  started  across  the  open  space 
between  the  gate  and  the  houses,  a  stone's  throw  away,  "  you  've  had 
an  experience  anyway." 

I  was  just  about  to  answer  that  undoubtedly  I  had  when  — 
"  Tzee-ee-ee-er-r"  —  a  shell  just  cleared  the  ramparts  over  our  heads  and 
disappeared  in  the  side  of  a  house  directly  in  front  of  us  with  a  roar  and 
a  geyser  of  dust.  Neither  the  motor  nor  a  guest's  duty  now  detained 
me,  and,  waving  him  good-by,  I  turned  at  right  angles  and  made  with 
true  civilian  speed  for  the  shelter  of  a  side  street. 

The  shells  all  appeared  to  be  coming  from  a  southeast  direction,  and 
in  the  lee  of  houses  on  the  south  side  of  the  street  one  was  reasonably 
protected.  Keeping  close  to  the  house  fronts  and  dodging  —  rather 
absurdly  no  doubt  —  into  doorways  when  that  wailing  whistle  came  up 
from  behind,  I  went  zigzagging  through  the  deserted  city  toward  the 
hotel  on  the  other  side  of  town. 

It  was  such  a  progress  as  one  might  make  in  some  fantastic  night- 
mare —  as  the  hero  of  some  eerie  piece  of  fiction  about  the  Last  Man 
in  the  W^orld.  Street  after  street,  with  doors  locked,  shutters  closed, 
sandbags,  mattresses,  or  little  heaps  of  earth  piled  over  cellar  windows ; 
streets  in  which  the  only  sound  was  that  of  one's  own  feet,  where  the 
loneliness  was  made  more  lonely  by  some  forgotten  dog  cringing 
against  the  closed  door  and  barking  nervously  as  one  hurried  past. 

Here,  where  most  of  the  shells  had  fallen  the  preceding  night,  nearly 
all  the  houses  were  empty.  Yet  occasionally  one  caught  sight  of  faces 
peering  up  from  basement  windows  or  of  some  stubborn  householder 
standing  in  his  southern  doorway  staring  into  space.  Once  I  passed  a 
woman  bound  away  from,  instead  of  toward,  the  river  with  her  big 
bundle ;  and  once  an  open  carriage  with  a  family  in  it  driving,  with 
peculiarly  Flemish  composure,  toward  the  quay ;  and  as  I  hurried  past 
the  park,  along  the  Avenue  Van  Dyck  —  where  fresh  craters  made  by 
exploding  shells  had  been  dug  in  the  turf  —  the  swans,  still  floating  on 
the  little  lake,  placidly  dipped  their  white  necks  under  water  as  if  it  were 
a  quiet  morning  in  May. 

Now  and  then,  as  the  shell's  wail  swung  over  its  long  parabola,  there 
came  with  the  detonation,  across  the  roofs,  the  rumble  of  falling  masonry. 


WAR  277 

Once  I  passed  a  house  quietly  burning,  and  on  the  pavement  were 
lopped-off  trees.  The  impartiality  with  which  those  far-off  gunners  dis- 
tributed their  attentions  was  disconcerting.  Peering  down  one  of  the  up- 
and-down  streets  before  crossing  it,  as  if  a  shell  were  an  automobile 
which  you  might  see  and  dodge,  you  would  shoot  across  and,  turning 
into  a  cozy  little  side  street,  think  to  yourself  that  here  at  least  they  had 
not  come,  and  then  promptly  see,  squarely  in  front,  another  of  those 
craters  blown  down  through  the  Belgian  blocks. 

Presently  I  found  myself  under  the  trees  of  the  Boulevard  Leopold, 
not  far  from  the  British  hospital,  and  recalled  that  it  was  about  time  that 
promise  was  made  good.  It  was  time  indeed,  and  help  with  lifting  they 
needed  very  literally.  The  order  had  just  come  to  leave  the  building, 
bringing  the  wounded  and  such  equipment  as  they  could  pack  into  half 
a  dozen  motor  busses,  and  retire  —  just  where,  I  did  not  hear  —  in  the 
direction  of  Ghent.  As  I  entered  the  porte-cochere  tvvo  poor  wrecks 
of  war  were  being  led  out  by  their  nurses  —  more  men  burned  in  the 
powder  explosion  at  Waelhem,  their  seared  faces  and  hands  covered 
with  oil  and  cotton  just  as  they  had  been  lifted  from  bed. 

The  phrase  "  whistle  of  shells  "  had  taken  on  a  new  reality  since  mid- 
night. Now  one  was  to  learn  something  of  the  meaning  of  those  equally 
familiar  words,  "  they  succeeded  in  saving  their  wounded  although  under 
heavy  fire." 

None  of  the  wounded  could  walk,  none  dress  himself ;  most  of  them 
in  ordinary  times  would  have  lain  where  they  were  for  weeks.  There 
were  fractured  legs  not  yet  set,  men  with  faces  half  shot  away,  men 
half  out  of  their  heads,  and  all  these  had  to  be  dressed  somehow,  cov- 
ered up,  crowded  into  or  on  top  of  the  busses  and  started  off  through 
a  city  under  bombardment  toward  open  country,  which  might  already 
be  occupied  by  the  enemy. 

Bundles  of  uniforms,  mud-stained,  blood-stained,  just  as  they  had 
come  from  the  trenches,  were  dumped  out  of  the  storeroom  and  distrib- 
uted, hit  or  miss. 

British  "  Tommies  "  went  out  as  Belgians,  Belgians  in  British  khaki ; 
the  man  whose  broken  leg  I  had  lifted  the  day  before  we  simply  bundled 
in  his  bed  blankets  and  set  up  in  the  corner  of  a  bus.  One  healthy- 
looking  Belgian  boy,  on  whom  I  was  trying  to  pull  a  pair  of  British 
trousers,  seemed  to  have  nothing  at  all  the  matter  with  him,  until  it 
presently  appeared  that  he  was  speechless,  and  paralyzed  in  both  left 


278  rVl'lCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

arm  and  left  leg.  And  while  we  were  working,  an  English  soldier  shot 
through  the  jaw  and  throat  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  shaking  with  a 
hideous  rattling  cough. 

The  hospital  was  in  a  handsome  stone  building,  in  ordinary  times  a 
club,  perhaps,  or  a  school ;  a  wide  stone  stairway  led  up  the  center,  and 
above  it  was  a  glass  skylight.  This  central  well  would  have  been  a 
charming  place  for  a  shell  to  drop  into,  and  one  did  drop  not  more 
than  fifty  feet  or  so  away,  in  or  close  to  the  rear  court.  A  few  yards 
down  the  avenue  another  shell  hit  a  cornice  and  sent  a  ton  or  so  of 
masonry  crashing  down  on  the  sidewalk.  Under  conditions  like  these 
the  nurses  kept  running  up  and  down  that  staircase  during  the  endless 
hour  or  two  in  which  the  wounded  were  being  dressed  and  carried  on 
stretchers  to  the  street.  They  stood  by  the  busses  making  their  men 
comfortable,  and  when  the  first  busses  were  filled,  they  sat  in  the  open 
street  on  top  of  them,  patiently  waiting,  as  calm  and  smiling  as  circus 
queens  on  their  gilt  chariots.  The  behavior  of  the  men  in  the  trenches 
was  cool  enough,  but  they  at  least  were  fighting  men  and  but  taking 
the  chance  of  war.  These  were  civilian  volunteers,  they  had  not  even 
trenches  to  shelter  them,  and  it  took  a  rather  unforeseen  and  difficult 
sort  of  courage  to  leave  that  fairly  safe  masonry  building  and  sit  smiling 
and  helpful  on  top  of  a  motor  bus  during  a  wait  of  half  an  hour  or  so, 
any  second  of  which  might  be  one's  last. 

There  was  an  American  nurse  there,  a  tall,  radiant  girl,  whom  they 
called,  and  rightly,  "  Morning  Glory,"  who  had  been  introduced  to  me 
the  day  before  because  we  both  belonged  to  that  curious  foreign  race  of 
Americans.  What  her  name  was  I  have  n't  the  least  idea,  and  if  we  were 
to  meet  tomorrow,  doubtless  we  should  have  to  be  carefully  presented 
over  again,  but  I  remember  calling  out  to  her,  "  Good-by,  American 
girl !  "  as  we  passed  in  the  hall  during  the  last  minute  or  two,  and  she 
said  good-by,  and  suddenly  reached  out  and  put  her  hand  on  my  shoulder 
and  added,  "  Good  luck  !  "  or  "  God  bless  you  !  "  or  something  like  that. 
And  these  seemed  at  the  moment  quite  the  usual  things  to  do  and  say. 
The  doctor  in  charge  and  the  general's  wife  apologized  for  running 
away,  as  they  called  it,  and  the  last  I  saw  of  the  latter  was  as  she  waved 
back  to  me  from  the  top  of  a  bus,  with  just  that  look  of  concern  over 
the  desperate  ride  they  were  beginning  which  a  slightly  preoccupied 
hostess  casts  over  a  dinner  table  about  which  are  seated  a  number  of 
oddly  assorted  guests. 


WAR  279 

The  strange  procession  got  away  safely  at  last,  and  safely,  too,  so  I 
was  told  later,  across  the  river;  but  where  they  finally  spent  the  night 
I  never  heard. 

I  hurried  down  the  street  and  into  the  Rue  Nerviens.  It  must  have 
been  about  4  o'clock  by  that  time.  The  bright  October  morning  had 
changed  to  a  chill  and  dismal  afternoon,  and  up  the  western  sky  in  the 
direction  of  the  river  a  vast  curtain  of  greasy  black  smoke  was  rolling. 
The  petrol  tanks  which  stretched  for  half  a  mile  or  so  along  the  Scheldt 
had  been  set  afire.  It  looked  at  the  moment  as  if  the  whole  city  might 
be  going,  but  there  was  no  time  then  to  think  of  possibilities,  and 
I  slipped  down  the  lee  side  of  the  street  to  the  door  with  the  Red  Cross 
flag.  The  front  of  the  hospital  was  shut  tight.  It  took  several  pulls  at 
the  bell  to  bring  anyone,  and  inside  I  found  a  Belgian  family,  who  had 
left  their  own  house  for  the  thicker  ceilings  of  the  hospital,  and  the  nuns 
back  in  the  wards  with  their  nervous  men. 

Their  servants  had  left  that  morning ;  the  three  or  four  sisters  in 
charge  had  to  do  all  the  cooking  and  housework  as  well  as  look  after 
their  patients,  and  now  they  were  keeping  calm  and  smiling  to  subdue 
as  best  they  could  the  fears  of  the  Belgian  wounded,  who  were  ready  to 
jump  out  of  bed,  whatever  their  condition,  rather  than  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  enemy.  Each  one  had  no  doubt  that  if  he  were  not  murdered  out- 
right he  would  be  taken  to  Germany  and  forced  to  fight  in  the  east 
against  the  Russians.  Several,  who  knew  very  well  what  was  going  on 
outside,  had  been  found  by  the  nurses  that  morning  out  of  bed  and 
all  ready  to  take  to  the  street. 

Lest  they  should  hear  that  their  comrades  in  the  Boulevard  Leopold 
had  been  moved,  the  lay  sister  —  the  English  lady  —  and  I  withdrew  to 
the  operating  room,  closed  the  door,  and  in  that  curious  retreat  talked 
over  the  situation.  No  orders  had  come  to  leave ;  in  fact,  they  had  been 
told  to  stay.  They  did  have  a  man  now  in  the  shape  of  the  Belgian 
gentleman,  and  from  the  same  source  an  able-bodied  servant,  but  how 
long  these  would  stay,  where  food  was  to  be  found  in  that  desolate  city, 
v/hen  the  bombardment  would  cease,  and  what  the  Germans  would  do 
with  them  —  well,  it  was  not  a  pleasant  situation  for  a  handful  of  women. 
But  it  was  not  of  themselves  she  was  thinking,  but  of  their  wounded  and 
of  Belgium,  and  of  what  both  had  suffered  already  and  of  what  might 
yet  be  in  store.  It  was  of  that  this  frail  little  sister  talked  that  hopeless 
afternoon,  while  the  smoke  in  the  west  spread  farther  up  the  sky,  and 


28o  rVPlCAL  NEWSrAPER  STORIES 

she  would  now  and  then  pause  in  the  middle  of  a  syllable  while  a  shell 
sang  overhead,  then  take  it  up  again. 

Meanwhile  the  light  was  going,  and  before  it  became  quite  dark  and 
my  hotel  deserted,  perhaps,  as  the  rest  of  Antwerp,  it  seemed  best  to  be 
getting  across  town.  I  could  not  believe  that  the  Germans  could  treat 
such  a  place  and  people  with  anything  but  consideration  and  told  the 
little  nurse  so.  She  came  to  the  edge  of  the  glass-covered  court,  laugh- 
ingly saying  I  had  best  run  across  it,  and  wondering  where  we,  who  had 
met  twice  now  under  such  curious  circumstances,  would  meet  again. 
Then  she  turned  back  to  the  ward  —  to  wait  with  that  roomful  of  more 
or  less  panicky  men  for  the  tramp  of  German  soldiers  and  the  knock 
on  the  door  which  meant  that  they  were  prisoners. 

Hurr)'ing  across  town,  I  passed,  not  far  from  the  Hotel  St.  Antoine, 
a  blazing  four-story  building,  nearly  burned  out' now,  and,  like  the  other 
Antwerp  fires,  not  spreading  beyond  its  four  walls.  The  cathedral  was 
not  touched,  and  indeed,  in  spite  of  the  noise  and  terror,  the  material 
damage  was  comparatively  slight.  Soldiers  were  clearing  the  quay  and 
setting  a  guard  directly  in  front  of  our  hotel — one  of  the  few  places  in 
Antwerp  that  night  where  one  could  get  so  much  as  a  crust  of  bread  — 
and  behind  drawn  curtains  as  usual  we  made  what  cheer  we  could.  There 
were  two  American  photographers  and  a  correspondent  who  had  spent 
the  night  before  in  the  cellar  of  a  house,  the  upper  story  of  which  had 
been  wrecked  by  a  shell ;  a  British  intelligence  officer,  with  the  most 
bewildering  way  of  hopping  back  and  forth  between  a  brown  civilian  suit 
and  a  spick-and-span  new  uniform  ;  and  several  Belgian  families  hoping 
to  get  a  boat  downstream  in  the  morning. 

We  sat  round  the  great  fire  in  the  hall,  above  which  the  architect, 
building-  for  happier  times,  had  had  the  bad  grace  to  place  a  skylight ;  and 
discussed  the  time  and  means  of  getting  away.  The  intelligence  officer, 
not  v.'ishing  to  be  made  a  prisoner,  was  for  getting  a  boat  of  some  sort 
at  the  first  crack  of  dawn,  and  the  photographers,  who  had  had  the  roof 
blown  off  over  their  heads,  heartily  agreed  with  him.  I  did  not  like  to 
leave  without  at  least  a  glimpse  of  those  spiked  helmets  nor  to  desert 
my  friends  in  the  Rue  Nerviens,  and  yet  there  was  the  likelihood, 
if  one  remained,  of  being  marooned  indefinitely  in  the  midst  of  the 
conqueiing  army. 

Meanwhile  the  flight  of  shells  continued,  a  dozen  or  more  fires  could 
be  seen  from  the  upper  windows  of  the  hotel,  and  billows  of  red  flame 


WAR  281 

from  the  burning  petrol  tanks  rolled  up  the  southern  sky.  It  had  been 
what  might  be  called  a  rather  full  day,  and  the  wail  of  approaching  pro- 
jectiles began  to  get  a  bit  on  one's  nerves.  One  started  at  the  slamming 
of  a  door,  took  every  dull  thump  for  a  distant  explosion,  and  when  we 
finally  turned  in  I  carried  the  mattress  from  my  room,  which  faced  the 
south,  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  building  and  laid  it  on  the  floor 
beside  another  man's  bed.  Before  a  shell  could  reach  me  it  would 
have  to  traverse  at  least  three  partitions  and  possibly  him  as  well. 

After  midnight  the  bombardment  quieted,  but  shells  continued  to  visit 
us  from  time  to  time  all  night.  All  night  the  Belgians  were  retreating 
across  the  pontoon  bridge,  and  once  —  it  must  have  been  about  2  or 
3  o'clock  —  I  heard  a  sound  which  meant  that  all  was  over.  It  was  the 
crisp  tramp  —  different  from  the  Belgian  shuffle  —  of  British  soldiers, 
and  up  from  the  street  came  an  English  voice,  "  Best  foot  forward, 
boys !  "  and  a  little  farther  on,  "  Look  alive,  men ;  they  've  just  picked 
up  our  range  !  " 

I  went  to  the  window  and  watched  them  tramp  by  —  the  same  men 
we  had  seen  that  morning.  The  petrol  fire  was  still  flaming  across  the 
south,  a  steamer  of  some  sort  was  burning  at  her  wharf  beside  the 
bridge  —  Napoleon's  veterans  retreating  from  Moscow  could  scarcely 
have  left  behind  a  more  complete  picture  of  war  than  did  those 
young  recruits. 

Morning  came  dragging  up  out  of  that  dreadful  night,  smoky,  damp, 
and  chill.  It  was  almost  a  London  fog  that  lay  over  the  abandoned 
town.  I  had  just  packed  up  and  was  walking  through  one  of  the  upper 
halls  when  there  was  a  crash  that  shook  the  whole  building,  the  sound 
of  falling  glass,  and  out  in  the  river  a  geyser  of  water  shot  up,  timbers 
and  boards  flew  from  the  bridge,  and  there  were  dozens  of  smaller  splashes 
as  if  from  a  shower  of  shot.  I  thought  that  the  hotel  was  hit  at  last,  and 
that  the  Germans,  having  let  civilians  escape  over  the  bridge,  were  turn- 
ing ever}'thing  loose,  determined  to  make  an  end  of  the  business.  It  was, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Belgians  blowing  up  the  bridge  to  cover  their 
retreat.  In  any  case  it  seemed  useless  to  stay  longer,  and  within  an  hour, 
on  a  tug  jammed  with  the  last  refugees,  we  were  starting  downstream. 

Behind  us,  up  the  river,  a  vast  curtain  of  lead-colored  smoke  from  the 
petrol  tanks  had  climbed  up  the  sky  and  spread  out  mushroom-wise,  as 
smoke  and  ashes  sometimes  spread  out  from  a  volcano.  This  smoke, 
merging  with  the  fog  and  the  smoke  from  the  Antwerp  fires,  seemed  to 


282  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

cover  the  whole  sky.  And  under  that  sullen  mantle  the  dark  flames  of 
the  petrol  still  glowed  ;  to  the  left  was  the  blazing  skeleton  of  the  ship, 
and  on  the  right  Antwerp  itself,  the  rich,  old,  beautiful,  comfortable 
city,  all  but  hidden,  and  now  and  then  sending  forth  the  boom  of  an 
exploding  shell  like  a  groan. 

A  large  empty  German  steamer,  the  Gneise?iau,  marooned  here  since 
the  war,  came  swinging  slowly  out  into  the  river,  pushed  by  two  or  three 
nervous  little  tugs  —  to  be  sunk  there,  apparently,  in  midstream.  From 
the  pontoon  bridge  which  stubbornly  refused  to  yield,  came  explosion 
after  explosion,  and  up  and  down  the  river  fires  sprang  up,  and  there 
were  other  explosions,  as  the  crushed  Belgians,  in  a  sort  of  rage  of 
devastation,  became  their  own  destroyers. 

By  following  the  adventures  of  one  individual  I  have  endeavored  to 
suggest  what  the  bombardment  of  a  modern  city  was  like  —  what  you 
might  expect  if  an  invading  army  came  tomorrow  to  New  York  or 
Chicago  or  San  Francisco.  I  have  only  coasted  along  the  edges  of  Bel- 
gium's tragedy,  and  the  rest  of  the  story,  of  which  we  were  a  part  for 
the  next  two  days — the  flight  of  those  hundreds  of  thousands  of  homeless 
people  —  is  something  that  can  scarcely  be  told  —  you  must  follow  it  out 
in  imagination  into  its  countless  uprooted,  disorganized  lives.  You  must 
imagine  old  people  struggling  along  over  miles  and  miles  of  country 
roads ;  young  girls,  under  burdens  a  man  might  not  care  to  bear,  tramp- 
ing until  they  had  to  carry  their  shoes  in  their  hands  and  go  barefoot  to 
rest  their  unaccustomed  feet.  You  must  imagine  the  pathetic  efforts  of 
hundreds  of  people  to  keep  clean  by  washing  in  wayside  streams  or 
ditches ;  imagine  babies  going  without  milk  because  there  was  no  milk 
to  be  had  ;  families  shivering  in  damp  hedgerows  or  against  haystacks 
where  darkness  overtook  them  ;  and  you  must  imagine  this  not  on  one 
road,  but  on  every  road,  for  mile  after  mile  over  a  whole  countryside. 
What  was  to  become  of  these  people  when  their  little  supply  of  food  was 
exhausted  ?  Where  could  they  go  ?  Even  if  back  to  their  homes, 
it  would  be  but  to  lift  their  hats  to  their  conquerors,  never  to  know  but 
that  the  next  week  or  month  would  sweep  the  tide  of  war  back  over 
them  again. 

Never  in  modern  times,  not  in  our  generation  at  least,  has  the  world 
seen  anything  like  that  flight  —  nothing  so  strange,  so  overw^helming,  so 
pitiful.  And  when  I  say  pitiful,  you  must  not  think  of  hysterical  women, 
desperate,  trampling  men,  tears  and  screams.    In  all  those  miles  one  saw 


WAR  283 

neither  complaining  nor  protestation  —  at  times  one  might  almost  have 
thought  it  some  vast  eccentric  picnic.  No,  it  was  their  orderliness,  their 
thrift  and  kindness,  their  unmistakable  usefulness,  which  made  the  wapte 
and  irony  of  it  all  so  colossal  and  hideous.  Each  family  had  its  big  rou.id 
loaves  of  bread  and  its  pile  of  hay  for  the  horses,  the  bags  of  pears  and 
potatoes ;  the  children  had  their  little  dolls,  and  you  would  see  some 
tired  mother  with  her  big  bundle  under  one  arm  and  some  fluffy  little 
puppy  in  the  other.  You  could  not  associate  them  with  forty-centimeter 
shells  or  burned  churches  and  libraries  or  anything  but  quiet  homes  and 
peaceable,  helpful  lives.  You  could  not  be  swept  along  by  that  endless 
stream  of  exiles  and  retain  at  the  end  of  the  day  any  particular  enthusiasm 
for  the  red  glory  of  war.  And  when  we  crossed  the  Dutch  border  that 
afternoon  and  came  on  a  village  street  full  of  Belgian  soldiers  cut  off 
and  forced  to  cross  the  line,  to  be  interned  here,  presumably  until  the 
war  was  over,  one  could  not  mourn  very  deeply  their  lost  chances  of 
martial  glory  as  they  unslung  their  rifles  and  turned  them  over  to  the 
good-natured  Dutch  guard.  They  had  held  back  that  avalanche  long 
enough,  these  Belgians,  and  one  felt  as  one  would  to  see  lost  children 
get  home  again  or  some  one  dragged  from  under  the  wheels.  —  Arthur 
RuHL,  in  Collier's  Weekly 

Editor's  Note.  Arthur  Ruhl's  stirring  account  of  the  fall  of  Antwerp 
and  the  retreat  of  the  Belgian  refugees  into  Holland  expresses  the  present- 
day  American  attitude  toward  war.  It  is  not  concerned  solely  with  batde  lines 
and  trenches  but  with  the  noncombatants  who  bear  the  brunt  of  war's  havoc. 

The  reading  of  this  story  released  a  series  of  vivid  moving  pictures  in  which 
the  writer  figures  not  as  a  spectator  but  as  a  friendly,  helpful  comrade.  He 
expresses  admiration  for  the  peaceful,  home-loving  people  who  uncomplainingly 
endure  the  ill  fortunes  of  bombardment  and  defeat.  The  story  is  clearly  told 
with  epic  simplicity,  and  with  no  attempt  at  literary  phrasing,  although  in  many 
paragraphs  it  approaches  the  dignity  and  universality  of  literature.  Restraint 
characterizes  every  line,  parricularly  in  the  first  part  of  the  narrative.  The 
reader  feels  that  much  has  been  left  unsaid  for  fear  of  overstadng  the  emotional 
quality  of  the  experience.  As  a  strong  piece  of  wridng  it  deserves  to  rank 
among  the  classics  of  war  literature. 

The  story  is  printed  by  courtesy  of  P.  F.  Collier  &  Son,  New  York  City, 
publishers  of  Collier's  Weekly. 


j84  'IVTR'AL  XKWSrAPKR  STORIES 


PARIS   UNDER  THE  SHADOW  OF  WAR 

Paris,  France,  October  1 7  (Correspondence  of  the  Associated  Press)  : 
—  The  intellectual  life  of  France  appears  numbed,  stupefied  by  the 
war.  No  new  books,  no  plays,  no  public  discourses  on  art  or  philos- 
ophy or  social  perplexities,  nothing  but  the  war.  The  shadow  of  it  falls 
somberly  on  everything.  Invention,  thought,  achievement  seems  scarcely 
worth  while  until  one  knows  how  the  war  will  issue.  Even  the  aptitudes 
and  accomplishments  of  individual  skilled  workers  have  fallen  off.  Dis- 
order and  a  universal  slackness  have  set  in.  How  can  anything  matter 
while  the  nation  struggles  for  very  life  and  while  every  family  has  its 
men  from  19  to  45  at  some  place  on  that  battle  line  stretching  from 
Switzerland  to  the  sea  ? 

The  mental  life  of  Paris,  radiating  thought  in  time  of  peace,  searching 
things  out,  estimating,  combining  and  reasoning,  has  been  replaced  by 
tales  about  the  war,  strange  fantastic  growths  that  circulate  and  grow  and 
die,  to  be  succeeded  by  others  as  rank  and  incredible,  or  simply  untrue. 

Rumor  is  mistress  of  the  mental  life  of  most  French  people.  The 
stricture  of  the  military  censorship  falls  upon  everything  published.  Every 
governor  of  a  military  district  has  his  own  censorship,  and  it  is  all  of  a 
negative  sort.  If  what  purports  to  be  a  statement  of  facts  about  any 
aspect  of  the  war  is  untrue  or  inaccurate  within  the  view  of  a  censor,  it 
must  not  be  printed.  If  the  written  word  is  true  or  probably  so,  it  must 
not  be  printed  because  military  operations  or  the  civil  administration 
of  the  country  at  war  may  be  embarrassed.  Hence  the  mind  of  one 
of  the  most  mentally  active  races  is  nourished  by  oral  communications, 
uncensored,  usually  unfounded  and  with  no  means  existing  to  verify 
or  correct  them.    One  meets  an  acquaintance  in  a  restaurant. 

"  Have  you  heard  the  awful  thing  that  happened  at  the  Trianon 
hospital  in  Versailles  last  night  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  Two  German  women  —  nobody  knew  they  were  German  —  entered 
the  hospital  as  nurses.  This  morning  all  the  wounded  were  dead. 
Poisoned  !  " 

"  But  there  were  a  lot  of  German  wounded  there." 

"  Yes,  they  were  n't  poisoned." 

Then  there  was  the  Von  Kluck  story  that  pervaded  Paris  for  weeks. 
It  had  many  forms,  but  the  one  usually  whispered  impressively  was  that 


WAR  285 

Von  Kluck's  army,  a  hundred  thousand,  two  hundred  thousand  or  three 
hundred  thousand,  as  the  case  might  be,  had  surrendered  and  that  the 
government  was  keeping  it  secret  so  that  the  French  people  should  not 
lose  their  self-control  by  being  too  joyous.  Von  Kluck  himself  had  been 
operated  upon  in  the  Val-de-Grace  hospital,  and  his  presence  there  was 
kept  secret  because  it  was  feared  that  a  mob  might  storm  the  hospital. 

One  seems  to  be  always  upon  the  eve  of  the  most  significant  events. 
Sometimes  they  are  sinister.  The  whole  city  is  filled  with  rumors  of 
disaster  to  the  French  armies,  the  breaking  to  pieces  of  the  defense  which 
has  held  so  long  against  the  German  invasion  and  the  imminence  of  the 
Germans  reaching  Paris  again.  One  hears  that  the  forts  would  not  last 
ten  minutes  under  the  great  guns  of  the  Germans.  At  other  times  all 
the  news  traveling  from  mouth  to  mouth  is  of  successes  in  the  north, 
the  crushing  of  whole  army  corps  and  the  imminent  disorganization 
and  rout  of  the  whole  German  military  fabric. 

Nothing  is  quite  worth  while  unless  it  is  poignant  either  in  its  intima- 
tion of  disaster  or  complete  victory.  The  gruesome,  incredible  episode  is 
told  with  particular  zest.  One  hears  of  the  French  officer,  lying  next  to 
a  wounded,  delirious  German  in  a  hospital.  The  Frenchman  speaks 
German  and  in  his  compassion  addresses  a  few  kind  words  in  German 
to  his  neighbor.    The  man  asks : 

"  Are  you  a  German,"  and  the  Frenchman  to  humor  him  replies,  "  Yes." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  can  save  me.  I  am  afraid.  Can  you  take  this  ? " 
and  the  man  pulls  from  some  pocket  in  his  uniform  the  dead  hand  of 
a  woman  with  fingers  covered  with  rings. 

Or  one  hears  of  the  Turkos  having  been  set  to  guard  64  German 
prisoners.  Figures  in  these  instances  must  be  precise  in  order  to  carry 
the  verisimilitude  of  truth.  The  Turkos  are  told  not  to  let  the  prisoners 
escape,  and  if  they  try  to  do  so  to  kill  them.  The  French  are  horrified  in 
the  morning  to  find  64  Germans  with  their  throats  cut.  The  Turkos 
explained  that  the  prisoners  moved  although  ordered  not  to  do  so,  and 
they  had  to  cut  their  throats  to  keep  them  quiet. 

The  stories  of  the  Turkos  carrying  heads  of  Germans,  with  their 
pockets  stuffed  full  of  ears,  have  become  so  common  that  they  have 
lost  flavor. 

The  military  administration  has  taken  note  of  the  excessive  number 
of  fantastic  and  often  injurious  reports  circulating.  It  appears  that  many 
of  those  concerning  operations  at  the  front  originated  from  drivers  of 


2S6  rVl'ICAL  NFAVSPAPER  STORIES 

officers'  automobiles.  The  chauffeurs  overhear  fragments  of  conversation, 
or  have  received  orders,  the  significance  of  which  they  do  not  understand, 
and  upon  which  they  place  a  wrong  construction.  When  the  chauffeurs 
return  to  camp,  or  if  they  happen  to  be  in  the  towns,  they  are  asked  for 
information.  They  often  enlarge  upon  what  they  have  heard  or  seen 
and,  perhaps  without  intending  to,  create  false  impressions.  Their  auditors 
add  their  own  tinge  of  color,  and  so  rumors  and  fantastically  baseless 
tales  are  started  which  travel  from  one  end  of  France  to  the  other. 

Editor's  Note.  The  extremes  to  which  a  censored  press  may  lead  are  pointed 
out  in  "  Paris  under  the  Shadow  of  War,"  a  story  issued  by  the  Associated 
Press.  The  blighting  effect  of  war  on  all  intellectual  and  commercial  activides 
is  the  excuse  for  this  cablegram.  It  might  just  as  easily  have  been  sent  by 
mail.  Its  underlying  reason  is  to  protest  against  the  paucity  of  news,  due  to 
the  military  censorship.  It  is  also  an  example  of  "  made  "  news,  outside  the 
province  of  the  war  office.  No  fault  could  be  found  with  it,  as  it  reveals  no 
military  secrets  and  is  so  naively  gruesome  that  it  is  harmless  from  a  news 
standpoint,  but  dangerous  emotionally.  Only  children  and  the  hysterical 
could  be  seriously  affected  by  it.  It  shows,  without  saying  so,  just  how  scarce 
real  war  news  is  in  Paris. 

The  ill  effect  of  these  strictures  of  censorship  upon  the  imaginative  mind  of 
the  French  people  is  proved  by  quoting  some  of  the  ghastly  tales  in  circula- 
tion concerning  the  enemy  and  its  inhuman  deeds.  These  stories  have  the 
merit  of  exaggeration.  They  are  so  highly  colored  that  no  one  living  outside 
the  war  zone  could  possibly  believe  them ;  but  to  those  unnerved  by  the 
immediate  nearness  of  the  invading  army  they  promise  ever-increasing  and 
haunting  horrors. 

The  story  is  written  with  a  well-achieved  attempt  to  imitate  the  French 
style  of  writing.  It  may  be  the  work  of  a  French  correspondent,  as  it  displays 
a  subtle  appreciation  of  the  French  type  of  mind. 


WAR  287 

GERMAN  ARMY  COOKS  WEAR  THE   IRON  CROSS 

London,  Oct.  20.  —  There  isn't  anything  heroic  about  a  cook.  One 
simply  cannot  imagine  a  cook  in  a  soiled  apron  and  a  mussed  white  cap 
doing  a  deed  of  valor.  When  things  go  wrong  one  either  apprehends  a 
cook  chasing  a  waiter  wath  a  bread  knife  or  else  giving  way  to  tears. 
But  the  German  army  is  full  of  cooks  upon  whose  broad,  fat  breasts 
dangles  the  iron  cross.  And  the  iron  cross  is  conferred  for  one  thing 
only  —  for  100  per  cent  courage. 

"  They  've  earned  it,"  said  the  man  who  had  seen  them.  "  They  are 
the  bravest  men  in  the  Kaiser's  4,000,000.  I  've  seen  generals  salute 
greasy,  paunchy,  sour-looking  army  cooks." 

The  cook's  job  is  to  feed  the  men  of  his  company.  Each  German 
company  is  followed  or  preceded  by  a  field  kitchen  on  wheels.  Some- 
times the  fires  are  kept  going  while  the  device  trundles  along.  The  cook 
stands  on  the  footboard  and  thumps  his  bread.  He  is  always  the  first 
man  up  in  the  morning  and  the  last  to  sleep  at  night.  He  is  held  to  the 
strictest  accountability.  The  Teuton  believes  in  plenty  of  food  —  of  a 
sort.    A  well-fed  soldier  will  fight.    A  hungry  one  may  not. 

"  When  the  company  gets  into  camp  at  night,"  said  the  man  who 
knows,  "  the  cook  is  there  before  it,  swearing  at  his  fires  and  the  second 
cook  and  turning  out  quantities  of  a  depressing-looking  veal  stew, 
which  is,  nevertheless,  very  good  to  eat." 

When  that  company  goes  into  the  trenches  the  cook  stays  behind. 
There  is  no  place  for  a  field  kitchen  in  a  four-foot  trench.  But  those 
men  in  the  trench  must  be  fed.  The  Teuton  insists  that  all  soldiers 
must  be  fed  —  but  especially  the  men  in  the  trench.  The  others  may  go 
hungry,  but  these  must  have  tight  belts.  Upon  their  staying  power 
may  depend  the  safety  of  an  army. 

So,  as  the  company  cannot  go  to  the  cook,  the  cook  goes  to  the  com- 
pany. When  meal  hour  comes  he  puts  a  yoke  on  his  shoulders  and  a 
cook's  cap  on  his  head  and  warns  the  second  cook  in  rumbling  Teutonic 
orations  as  to  what  will  happen  if  he  lets  the  fires  go  out,  and  puts  a 
bucketful  of  that  veal  stew  on  either  end  of  the  yoke  and  goes  to  his  men. 
Maybe  the  trench  is  under  fire.  Being  a  trench,  it  most  probably  is.  No 
matter.  His  men  are  in  that  trench  and — potztaiisend — they  must  be  fed. 

Sometimes  the  second  cook  gets  his  step  right  there.  Sometimes  the 
apprentice   cook  —  the  dishwasher,  the  grub   murderer,  the   university 


288  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

graduate  who  has  just  learned  what  to  expect  when  Fahrenheit  is  applied 
to  spuds  —  is  summoned  from  his  job  of  rustling  firewood  to  pick  up 
the  cook's  yoke  and  refill  the  spilled  buckets  and  tramp  steadily  forward 
to  the  line.  Sometimes  the  supply  of  assistant  cooks,  even,  runs  short. 
But  the  men  in  the  trenches  always  get  their  food. 

"  That 's  why  so  many  cooks  in  the  German  army  have  iron  crosses 
dangling  from  their  lumpish  breasts,"  said  the  man  who  knows.  "  No 
braver  men  ever  lived.  The  man  in  the  trench  can  duck  his  head  and 
light  his  pipe  and  be  relatively  safe.  No  fat  cook  yoked  to  two  buckets 
of  veal  stew  can  ever  be  safe  as  he  marches  down  the  trench  under 
fire.  But  he  always  marches.  His  men  are  always  fed,  and  they  are 
fed  on  time.  The  hero  of  the  German  campaign  is  the  fat  cook  of 
the  field  kitchen." 

The  man  who  knows  really  does  know.  He  has  been  along  the 
German  battle  line,  under  protection  of  a  headquarters  pass. 

"  I  have  heard  stories  of  Germans  being  reduced  to  eating  grass  and 
beetroots  and  turnips,"  said  he.  "  Maybe  here  and  there  a  lost  soldier 
may  have  eaten  such  ensilage.  The  German  soldier  who  stayed  with  his 
company  didn't  have  to.  Whatever  may  have  gone  wrong  with  the 
German  strategy,  nothing  whatever  went  wrong  with  the  German  com- 
missary. The  food  is  pretty  rough  food,  from  my  point  of  view ;  it 
is  sprinkled  with  large,  furious  sausages,  and  is  built  on  a  displeasing 
foundation  of  stew,  but  it  is  good,  filling,  sustaining  food.  And  the 
soldier  always  gets  it." 

Even  when  the  trains  of  wounded  wheel  their  frightful  way  to  the 
rear  a  comissariat  provision  has  been  made  for  them.  The  German 
theory  is  that  a  man  who  is  able  to  eat  at  all  can  eat  a  sausage.  Other 
soldiers  follow  with  buckets  of  water  and  long  dippers. 

"  Each  wounded  man  who  can  eat  is  given  a  sausage.  If  he  cannot 
eat  and  may  still  get  some  comfort  out  of  a  sausage,  he  gets  it — two 
feet  long  and  as  thick  as  your  arm.  I  've  seen  dying  men  and  dead 
with  these  great  green  sausages  nestled  in  the  crooks  of  their  arms." 

It  is  this  man's  belief,  based  on  what  he  has  heard,  that  the  commis- 
sariat of  the  allies  has  from  time  to  time  broken  down,  but  that  of  the 
German  never  has. 

"  Generally  speaking,  I  think  the  English  soldier  has  been  well  fed," 
said  he.  "  The  English  dependence  is  in  bully  beef,  just  as  that  of  the 
Teuton  is  in  sausage.    Whenever  you  come  upon  an  abandoned  camp 


WAR  289 

ground  of  Tommy  Atkins  you  find  a  deep  stratum  of  empty  cans.  The 
French  and  Belgium  neighbor  is  apt  to  feed  well  on  English  beef  also, 
Atkins  is  a  generous  and  somewhat  improvident  beggar.  The  French 
piou-piou  depends  mostly  on  wine.  Give  him  wine  and  bread,  and  he 
will  go  through  any  hardship.  His  spirit  improves  if  you  add  to  that 
a  little  sugar." 

But  it  is  the  German  who  is  notably  plumped  with  excellent  food.  He 
is  an  expert  at  living  upon  the  countryside,  too  —  although  this  man  says 
he  does  n't  loot  except  by  way  of  reprisal  upon  a  hedge-firing  country- 
side. He  pays  for  what  he  gets  very  largely,  even  if  that  payment  is 
wholly  valueless  bits  of  paper,  certifying  that  a  German  soldier  upon 
a  certain  day  took  the  farmer's  hen  away.  —  Herbert  Corey,  in 
Chicago  Daily  News 

Editor's  Note.  A  feature  story  of  the  war,  with  no  immediate  news 
value,  but  which  abounds  in  homely  human  touches,  is  exemplified  by  this  tale 
of  the  German  army  cook,  told  half  jocularly,  but  not  flippantly.  It  presents 
a  refreshing  contrast  to  the  usual  war  story.  The  greasy,  nameless  German 
cook,  in  a  soiled  apron,  appears  as  a  hero  of  the  Iron  Cross.  Snatches  of 
interviews  add  to  the  authenticity  of  the  story  and  bring  variety. 

From  a  news  standpoint  this  commonplace  chef  of  the  trenches  is  just  as 
interesting  as  a  general  in  gaudy  regimentals ;  and  from  a  human  standpoint 
tremendously  more  necessary,  for  the  German  army  must  be  fed.  Hungry 
men  do  not  fight  well.    Food  is  fuel  for  the  human  engine. 

The  theme  —  appreciation  for  bravery  in  an  obscure,  inglorious  calling  — 
has  a  universal  appeal.    It  is  therefore  good  newspaper  "  copy." 

Notice  the  free  use  of  vernacular,  the  smooth  flow  of  the  sentences,  and 
the  easy,  good-natured  vein  in  which  the  story  is  cast.  It  may  not  be  literary, 
but  it  is  clear,  natural,  interesting,  and  satisfies  the  common  man,  to  whom 
the  newspaper  addresses  itself. 


2go  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 


VIENNA,  A  CITY  OF  MISERY 

Vienna,  Oct.  6  (by  mail).  —  Vienna  is  a  city  of  lost  hope,  of  gloom, 
of  gray  despair. 

The  once  gayest  and  most  beautiful  capital  of  Europe  is  today  the 
saddest,  the  most  distressed.  Silent,  hopeless  protests  against  the  horrors 
of  war  which  have  turned  this  wonderful,  joyous  city  into  a  melancholy 
sepulcher  for  the  living  permeates  every  stratum  of  society. 

I  have  seen  a  procession  of  four  thousand  mothers  whose  husbands 
have  died  in  Galicia  carrying  in  their  arms  their  fatherless  babes.  They 
filed  past  the  great,  cold  palace  of  the  ministry  of  war.  It  was  their  mute 
appeal  for  peace. 

I  have  seen  a  procession  of  litde  children,  plaintive  and  futile  emis- 
saries of  life,  silently  protesting  against  needless  death. 

I  have  seen  trains  arriving,  every  one  crowded  to  suffocation  with 
the  wounded  and  dying. 

From  the  midst  of  these  maimed  and  mutilated,  sickened  and  suffering 
men  I  have  seen  uncomprehending  soldiers,  dazed  by  the  horrors  of  war, 
crazed  with  joy  at  being  home  again,  dragged  from  their  companions  and 
placed  under  arrest.  Their  crime  ?  Why,  they  cried  out  in  delirium  of  ex- 
citement their  curses  against  the  Russians  who  had  brought  such  terrible 
defeat  to  the  Austrian  armies.  For  no  news  must  be  whispered  by  the 
wounded  or  the  fugitive  which  reflects  the  truth  of  Austrian  disasters. 

And  above  these  visual  pictures  of  the  melancholy  Vienna  of  today  I 
have  sensed  the  touch  of  those  gray  wings  of  dread  which  cast  their 
shadow  over  the  town  —  the  soiled,  the  sordid,  the  horrible  wings  of 
cholera. 

I  have  felt  with  the  people,  stalking  beside  this  hideous  enemy  the 
plague,  its  sister  specter  —  hunger. 

In  Vienna  today  seventy  thousand  wounded  are  being  cared  for  in 
hospitals,  schools,  universities,  hotels,  churches.  The  Red  Cross  admits 
its  inability  to  care  for  all  the  wounded,  and  the  sight  of  helpless  men, 
suffering  needlessly  and  hopelessly,  is  one  which  confronts  the  workers 
in  the  cause  of  humanity. 

In  all  Europe  there  does  not  exist  today  another  capital  where  the 
public  is  treated  so  inconsiderately  in  regard  to  war  news.  The  news- 
papers publish  nothing  save  the  official  statements  —  and  their  "  news  " 


WAR  291 

can  be  guessed  at.  Arrests  are  made  hourly  of  Viennese  who  whisper 
word  of  Austrian  defeat.  Spies  are  everywhere.  In  a  cafe  in  the  Prater 
I  sat  in  a  nervous  crowd  and  saw  whispering  refugees  from  Galicia  pass- 
ing their  story  on,  furtively  and  fearfully.  Suddenly  I  saw  a  young  man 
whose  pale  face  told  of  recent  suffering  desert  his  companion,  who 
went  to  the  door,  whispered  to  an  officer  and  departed.  In  a  minute 
the  fugitive  was  arrested.    He  had  talked  to  a  spy. 

At  the  same  station  where  the  incoming  trains  bring  new  misery  for 
gay  Vienna  that  was,  I  talked  with  a  young  mother,  whose  husband  lay 
dead  on  the  battlefield.  She  had  fled  to  the  capital  to  plead  with  the 
government  which  had  taken  her  husband  and  robbed  her  children  of  a 
father,  for  means  of  support  and  some  of  the  necessaries  of  life.  She 
told  in  patient,  resigned  tones  of  her  sufferings  in  bringing  her  three 
children  from  Galicia,  where  her  home  was  to  be  her  haven  no  longer, 
and  where  blood  ran  deep  in  the  garden  beds  which  she  had  tended  so 
faithfully  waiting  the  return  of  her  husband. 

"  When  we  arrived  at  the  frontier,"  she  said,  "  the  scenes  were  awful. 
We  were  herded  like  animals  and  were  treated  worse  than  we  treat  our 
dogs.  I  was  days  in  securing  a  place  in  the  trains  because  I  had  no 
money.  There  was  a  police  officer  on  the  train  and  he  demanded  our 
passports,  such  money  as  we  had,  and  when  we  could  show  neither  he 
refused  for  days  to  let  us  go  on." 

The  natural  impulse  of  these  fugitives  here  is  to  speak  of  the  evil 
days  which  have  befallen  them,  of  their  losses  and  the  carnage  —  and 
they  cannot  understand  why  they  are  arrested  for  it. 

The  sight  of  motor  cars  carrying  wounded  soldiers  past  the  brilliant 
Hof  Theatre,  past  the  opera,  past  the  Gothic  splendor  of  St.  Stephen's, 
where  formerly  gay  cars  sped  on,  bent  on  pleasure,  is  one  that  moves 
the  Viennese  to  despair. 

I  talked  to  one  of  these  wounded  soldiers  as  the  car  in  which  he  was 
being  carried  was  stopped  in  front  of  the  Burg  Theatre  for  repairs.  He  told 
me  in  whispers,  while  the  guards  were  busy  with  the  car,  of  the  frightful 
ravages  made  by  the  Russians  and  the  Servians  upon  the  Austrians. 

"  They  have  buried  our  dead  in  heaps,"  he  said,  tears  coursing  down 
his  face.  "  They  were  killed  like  sheep  driven  to  a  slaughter  yard.  The 
Russian  artillery  has  done  unbelievable  things.  The  Russians  waste 
their  ammunition  as  though  it  were  free  as  air.  Their  infantry  is  not 
good,  but  how  terrible  is  the  artillery  —  how  terrible  —  " 


292  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

The  spirit  of  patriotism  in  the  Viennese  runs  to  its  highest  ebb  when 
these  wounded  men  are  being  conveyed  through  the  streets. 

Before  the  palace  of  the  minister  of  war,  beside  the  monuments  of 
Maria  Theresa  and  of  Prince  Schwarzenberg,  the  cannons  and  arms 
captured  from  the  Russians  are  on  view.  They  are  insignificant  arms, 
but  the  people  do  not  tire  of  caressing  them.  The  meager  signs  of 
Austrian  success  are  like  gleams  of  hope  in  a  leaden  sky  of  despair. 

And  patrolling  the  streets  one  sees  increasing  in  number  daily  a 
nondescript  array  of  uniforms.  Every  color  and  sort  of  ancient  regalia 
has  been  brought  forth  from  old  storehouses. 

In  the  hour  when  war  and  its  horrors  are  keeping  a  pall  over  Vienna 
the  sight  of  religious  processions,  headed  by  priests  praying  for  Divine  aid, 
brings  out  in  relief  the  picture  of  faith.  The  churches  are  constantly  filled 
with  women  and  children,  praying  for  husbands  and  fathers  and  brothers 
who  may  never  return.  In  the  time  of  sorrow,  too  great  to  endure  alone, 
the  people  are  throwing  themselves  more  and  more  upon  the  bosom  of 
the  church  which  has  offered  them  consolation  so  many  times  before. 

While  the  devout  are  filling  the  churches  and  the  wounded  are  filling 
the  hospitals,  while  the  wretched  fugitives  are  bringing  with  them  famine 
from  Galicia,  accusations  and  protests  are  rising  above  the  murmurs  of 
distress,  against  the  rich. 

On  different  subscription  lists  opened  for  the  Red  Cross  the  sight  of 
unbelievably  small  sums  given  by  members  of  the  nobility  and  hy  million- 
aires has  brought  forth  waves  of  indignation.  A  feudal  prince  who  is 
among  the  richest  men  in  Europe  has  subscribed  twenty  crowns  —  $4. 

Everywhere  one  hears  criticism  of  the  aristocracy  of  the  high  nobility 
and  their  avarice.  This  selfishness,  say  the  people,  is  traditional,  but  the 
public  believed  that  in  an  hour  like  this  even  the  tightened  purses  of 
the  nobility  would  open. 

It  has  been  suggested  that  a  list  be  published  giving  the  names  of  the 
nobility,  of  the  rich  who  have  been  guilty  of  avarice  and  w-ho  have  added 
to  the  general  public  depression.  Emperor  Franz  Joseph  does  not  con- 
ceal his  indignation  against  these  grasping  members  of  the  nobility.  — 
Alice  Rome,  United  Press  Staff  Correspondent 

Editor's  Note.  This  description  was  sent  by  mail  as  it  has  no  urgent 
news  interest.  In  point  of  view  the  story  is  feminine  and  the  style  is  in  some 
places  rather  forced  and  artificial ;  but  it  mirrors  the  after  effects  of  war  upon 
a  helpless  population  of  dependent  women  with  children.    It  is  full  of  color. 


WAR  293 

ON  THE   PATHS  OF  GLORY 

How  can  I  make  you  see,  with  the  aid  of  mere  words  and  a  few  poor 
literary  artifices,  a  thing  which  is  all  movement,  all  transport  of  soul, 
all  fierceness  and  all  clamor  1  Music  alone  could  give  an  approximate 
idea  of  battle  and  its  tumult,  but  even  music  could  not  represent  its 
intoxicating  realities.  I  do  not  hope  to  make  you  smell  the  powder  or 
the  heavy  odor  of  blood,  nor  to  enable  you  to  perceive  the  rumblings, 
the  splendors,  the  heavings  of  this  dull  and  cruel  strife.  I  would  only 
bring  before  your  eyes  a  corner  of  France,  and  a  soldier  in  the  midst  of 
the  hurricane  of  bullets,  of  shells,  of  bayonets,  of  screamings,  of  groan- 
ings,  and  of  the  thud  of  marcliing  feet. 

It  is  necessary,  as  the  commander  says,  to  take  the  trench. 

He  does  not  put  it  in  words,  but  we  divine  in  his  accent,  in  his  gesture 
and  in  his  glance,  that,  cost  what  it  may,  the  order  must  be  executed  : 
"  Conquer  or  die."  These  words,  which  formerly  had  for  us  only  a 
certain  vague,  ideal  and  heroic  meaning,  take  upon  themselves  a  sudden 
weight  of  significance  now  that  we  are  really  face  to  face  with  the 
Comrade. 

An  artilleryman  running  up  hands  a  folded  paper  to  the  commander. 
He  reads  it,  his  brows  knit,  he  scribbles  a  word  with  a  pencil  and  gives 
the  note  back  to  the  man,  who  disappears  toward  the  rear.  Some  min- 
utes slip  by  broken  by  intermittent  volleys. 

They  evidently  were  on  the  watch.  We  cannot  hope  to  surprise  them 
and  we  are  scooped,  that  is  certain.  Bah  !  our  parts  are  cast ;  the  first 
skirmish  has  prepared  us.  As  a  timid  bather  tries  the  water  with  his 
feet,  we  have  taken  the  temperature  of  combat ;  the  ice  is  broken 
between  danger  and  our  nerves.    Everyone  smiles  and  is  ready. 

The  stretcher  bearers  come  up  after  cariying  away  the  last  wounded. 
The  commander  goes  up  and  down  the  lines  hurling  advice  at  us  in 
crisp  words : 

"  Don't  fire ;  throw  yourselves  down  at  each  halt ;  run  toward  the 
mitrailleuses  after  each  blast !  Courage,  my  children,  and  silence  till 
you  get  to  the  lines  of  wires." 

Before  he  stops  seventy-five  men  have  consented  to  be  hurled  to 
death.    The  moment  has  come ! 

The  eyes  of  the  chief  flash.  With  a  quick  gesture  he  pulls  his 
revolver  from  his  sheath. 


294  rVlMCAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

"  My  children,  bayonet  or  cannon  !  For  France,  forward !  "  and  he 
leaps  out  of  the  trench,  followed  by  us  all. 

Thirty  meters  are  cleared  away  in  as  many  seconds ;  but  our  move- 
ment has  been  seen,  for  a  terrible  fusillade  throws  us  upon  our  stomachs. 

Our  hearts  beat  and  strain  within  our  breasts  and  our  breath  comes 
short.  The  knapsack  is  troublesome.  Some  have  already  thrown  it 
away. 

My  Algerian  has  not  quitted  me.  He  holds  in  one  hand  his  rifle  and 
in  the  other  his  shears,  and  is  prepared  to  follow  me. 

The  laying  waste  has  not  yet  begun.  They  fire  high  and  the  bullets 
make  their  familiar  music  above  our  heads.  Some  Marmite  shells  flash 
out  here  and  there  without  doing  any  damage.  We  await  orders  and 
gain  a  little  ground  on  our  hands  and  knees.  The  fusillade  stops.  I 
look  at  those  about  me.  They  have  become  men  of  deeds  and  have 
passed  the  age  of  rash  temerity  and  thoughtless  audacit\\  The  heat  and 
noise  of  combat  •  have  fired  their  brain.  Yet  an  unshaken  resolution 
makes  the  muscles  of  their  hands  stand  out  and  hardens  their  faces. 

"  Do  not  fire  !   Forward  !  "   cries  a  voice. 

We  run  like  mad  for  the  woods,  and  among  the  branches  which  lash  our 
faces.    We  take  off  our  kepis  and  hang  them  on  the  skirts  of  our  coats. 

Ta,  ca,  ta,  ca,  ta,  cata,  ca  ta !  From  right  and  left  the  mitrailleuses 
patter  upon  the  underbrush.  It  sounds  like  a  hailstorm  on  the  leaves. 
We  throw  ourselves  to  the  ground,  panting  for  breath. 

Vacant  places  have  already  appeared  in  our  line,  but  they  have  been 
filled  at  once  by  new  faces.  We  are  anxiously  waiting  while  our  temples 
throb  beneath  the  storm  of  grape.  Our  elbows  touch  in  the  narrow 
aisle  and  the  human  smell  is  strong. 

I  know  not  what  my  neighbors  are  thinking ;  but  an  obstinate  ques- 
tion is  in  my  mind.  Dare  I  plunge  my  bayonet  into  the  body  of  a  man, 
even  up  to  the  hilt  ?  That  square  blade  which  pierces  the  flesh,  a  spurt 
of  red,  the  frightful  grimace  of  a  man  transpierced  !  I  have  seen 
heads  fall.  Without  any  emotion  I  have  seen  Liabeuf,  Callemin  and 
their  like  of  sinister  memories  die.    But  not  like  that  I 

Tacataca,  ta,  ca,  ta !  Piuh,  piuh  !  Xzz,  vzz,  vzz,  vzz  !  Boom  !  Boom  ! 
What  a  hubbub  1  But  seventy-five  of  our  men  are  slain.  It  is  our  turn 
to  go  to  the  fete  now ! 

"  Forward  1  the  wretches  !  "  shouts  the  commander,  ten  meters  in 
advance,   bareheaded,   superb,   with   disheveled  hair. 


WAR  295 

Beneath  the  tempest  of  iron,  with  teeth  clenched,  and  breast  throb- 
bing, we  hurled  ourselves  forward.  The  ranks  thin  out.  The  men  slip 
down  as  if  they  stumbled  over  a  tree  root,  but  none  utters  a  cry  or 
raises  himself.  The  wounded  fall  to  the  earth  without  moving.  I  recog- 
nize only  two  or  three  faces  about  me,  but  my  sharpshooter  is  always 
there.  He  has  put  his  rifle  in  his  bandoleer  and  his  right  hand  grips  his 
shears  firmly.  The  last  rush  has  carried  us  nearly  to  the  clearing. 
Scarcely  fifty  meters  separate  us  from  the  enemy's  trenches  from  which 
the  storm  of  iron  is  pouring. 

How  can  we  contain  ourselves  ?  The  seconds  seem  like  hours.  We 
are  exasperated,  maddened  with  the  desire  to  fire,  to  strike,  to  finish  it. 
Without  thinking  we  fire  furiously. 

Suddenly  we  tremble  from  head  to  foot.  With  a  magnificent  discord 
which  even  brings  a  smile  to  our  lips,  a  trumpet  sounds  the  charge. 
Then  a  formidable  cry :  "  Forward !  With  the  bayonets  !  "  repeated 
from  a  thousand  throats  as  if  mad,  while  the  metallic  notes  pierce  the 
heart  and  rush  us  on  irresistibly. 

There  is  a  drop  to  drink  above ! 
There  is  a  drop  to  drink  ! 

Howling  like  demons,  no  obstacle  can  check  us.    Who  falls  ?    No  one 

knows  ! 

There  is  a  drop  to  drink  above ! 

Fallen  trees,  woven  together,  invisible  holes  that  make  us  stumble, 
wires  which  entangle  us,  these  are  not  enough  to  check  our  onward  rush. 
There  is  a  drop  to  drink  — 

With  a  glance  of  the  eye,  which  only  fifteen  years  on  the  football 
field  can  give  to  a  man,  I  take  in  the  battlefield :  There  are  some 
trenches  about  one  hundred  meters  long,  with  two  mitrailleuses  at  each 
end  which  sweep  the  earth  with  their  last  gusts,  and  scarcely  thirty 
Westphalians  —  all  that  two  officers  could  hold  at  the  point  of  the 
revolver  —  rush  out  of  the  trenches,  firing  as  they  run.  The  rest  have 
fled  before  our  bayonets,  stampeding  the  reserves  in  their  panic. 

"  To  the  mitrailleuses !  to  the  mitrailleuses ! "  Twenty  men  hurl 
themselves  forward.  A  corporal  gets  there  first  and  beats  the  subofficer 
down  on  his  own  machine  gun.  The  other  "  coffee  mills  "  are  seized, 
too.    But  the  trumpet  is  not  still.    It  sounds : 

There  is  a  drop  to  drink  above! 


296  TYPICAL  NEWSPAPER  STORIES 

The  handful  of  W'estphalians  defend  themselves  courageously.  A 
formidable  sergeant  of  marines,  with  a  gesture  quick  as  thought,  plants 
his  bayonet  in  the  breast  of  a  big  devil  who  falls,  vomiting  a  red  flood. 
The  blade  has  penetrated  so  far  that  in  trying  to  pull  it  out  it  is  twisted 
into  uselessness.  Then  there  is  a  horrible  mele'e,  in  which  the  dripping 
bayonets  are  plunged  into  bodies,  where  clubbed  rifles  beat  upon  heads, 
where  men,  each  intent  on  his  own  task,  are  hurled  together,  breath  to 
breath,  a  tangled,  biting,  strangling,  kicking  mass,  from  which  come  oaths 
and  prayers,  groanings  and  the  death  rattle. 

Two  men  throw  themselves  upon  each  other  with  so  much  fury  that 
their  blades  disappear  in  their  bellies  even  to  the  hilt.  They  fall  side  by 
side  with  the  death  sob  in  their  throats.  One  of  the  Westphalian  officers, 
still  on  his  feet,  hurls  himself  upon  one  of  our  men  who  has  just  disen- 
tangled himself  from  the  wires,  but,  in  his  turn,  he  makes  a  false  step 
and  falls  upon  his  adversary.  The  two  men  struggle  silently,  when  sud- 
denly the  soldier,  disengaging  himself,  seizes  the  officer's  sword  and  pins 
him  to  the  earth. 

"  Go  it,  marines !  "  shouts  an  old  soldier  of  Tonkin  and  Morocco, 
brandishing  his  rifle  about  in  his  arms  as  beautiful  as  a  statue. 

Defeated,  the  few  remaining  Prussians  threw  themselves  on  their 
knees.  "  Comrades  !  Comrades  !  "  they  cried,  but  the  fury  of  carnage 
was  on,  and  the  bayonets  and  rifles  did  their  terrible  work,  butchering 
the  last  with  awful  cries. 

We  jump  into  the  captured  trench,  covered  with  sweat  and  blood, 
our  eyes  staring  with  horror,  our  throats  dry,  almost  out  of  breath,  but 
with  the  heart  swelling  with  joy.  We  feverishly  make  ready  to  fire 
upon  the  fugitives. 

The  night  falls.  With  a  bloody  arm  thrust  into  a  tunic,  and  his  face 
bleeding  from  a  wound  in  the  cheek,  the  commander  leaps  up. 

"  Twenty  men  to  the  front.  Use  up  your  cartridges.  The  others 
fortify  the  trench  !  " 

Everyone  understood.  In  the  flash  of  an  eye  the  tools  were  out  of 
the  knapsacks,  and  shovels  and  picks  were  moving  the  earth  while 
the  firing  began  again. —  From  the  French  of  Charles  Tardieu,  in  the 
Paris  Figaro,  translated  for  the  Philadelphia  Public  Ledger. 

Editor's  Note.  This  tremendous  epic  of  war  lust  and  butchery,  written 
by  a  French  soldier  in  the  thick  of  the  fighting,  is  typical  of  a  great  mass  of 
war  literature  produced  by  combatants,  onlookers,  and  men  in  the  trenches. 


WAR  297 

As  a  piece  of  gripping  realism,  simply  portrayed,  this  description  has  had  no 
counterpart.  It  reenforces  the  newspaper  maxim  that  literary  art  is  really 
a  by-product  and  that  the  secret  of  writing  is  to  see  clearly  and  reproduce 
accurately.  The  description  possesses  a  heat  that  no  mere  spectator  or 
marooned  correspondent,  set  far  apart  from  the  alarm  of  battle,  can  possibly 
duplicate. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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